Operation Restoration
by high.fiving.jesus
Summary: Those shades of blue hide that smile that beats in your chest. Continuation of the one-shot 'Burden Bright'. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**I apparently inspired myself the moment I saved the original chapter on my computer. I had this want to continue that one-shot, but it landed on a perfect stopping point so I in no way could bring myself to interrupt that by throwing more into it. Now, I'm just throwing together another chapter, that'll hopefully grow into a full story that I'll actually manage to **_**finish**_**—I'll die if that happens. It'll be a first.**

**I don't want the characters to be OOC but I'll alter their personalities according to demand. For example, Octavian is the creepy kid, not the eloquent speaker and conniving auger we know him as.**

**Please read 'Burden Bright', the companion piece before diving into this. You might not be _thoroughly_ lost but it's a tedious task not to.**

**My inner idiot showing through: I edited this chapter thoroughly and revised wording so that it flowed better and you know what I did next? Exited out of the page without saving. What was originally posted was my rough draft before I spent a half-an-hour revising with a clear mind. Whoo!**

* * *

**Quote: **_You never forget who you really are… no matter how many nights you stay awake trying to._ -Unknown

**Rating: T**

**Pairings: Percabeth (others will probably be thrown in)**

**Spoilers: None. This is AU. Well, I guess since I'll probably include every character thus far, the names and appearances will be spoiled.**

* * *

**BURDEN BRIGHT  
**_Operation Restoration_

"It's almost summer," she tells me as she ducks under the window; she has on an elegant grey sweater that matches her eyes. She had begun covering herself when she came out in her pajamas. I don't like thinking that her physical condition makes her uncomfortable but it does just that to me. I can't look at her thin pale arms and ignore the fact that they've been mutilated so gruesomely. I can't look at the outline of her tank top and pretend the insipid pink lines aren't there.

Her black eye has faded, leaving just an ugly green and yellow blotch under her bottom lashes. Normally she would have some sort of concealment thing that she'd rub into her skin so the tones matched, but when we're out on the fire escape, she can't bring herself to hide anything. I want progress reports and she doesn't have the strength to keep me posted verbally.

I blink as a first response and try to bring around the significance; this phrase has never and seems to still not have a negative connotation to it. "Thank God," I breathe with a slight smile.

Her lips don't even twitch and I know I'm wrong.

"What?"

"_What?_" I know she's frustrated with this little fact; it's almost time for school to end, which does generally mean happiness for all the children of the educational system. No homework, no whack-job teachers, no really freaking infuriating under or upper classmen. But this isn't good for her and I'm not exactly sure why. "You're such an idiot."

I stopped taking offense to her little side remarks the first week of school when she told me that half-wits were twice as smart as me. By now, I realize it was not only her coping mechanism but also her means of accusing. She was begging someone to notice her and I, the dumber-than-a-half-wit-who-pointed-out-the-obvious-signs, had yet to notice what she was trying to say. She had chosen me for some reason.

I think now about all of the empty seats she could've slid into, next to countless fellow peers, but something had made her choose my neighboring seat. She threw her book bag on _my_ desk and hooked our two personal bubbles into one—the lab tables were itty-bitty with hardly any room for personal space. I couldn't shake her away, even if I wanted to.

"I know," I tell her, sitting on the stairs that lead up to a story just above me and leaning back onto another step. She slips her legs under the safety rails and lets them dangle, her chin resting on her arms that lounge on a higher bar.

"I can't," she sighs and her eyes flutter. A long moment passes and I slide down the silence she gives me into her mind, envisioning two months of hiding around her room, waiting for someone, probably me, to return from their summer vacation trip. Two months of dodging blows, of crying to and by herself. Two months of painful days passing. I can feel her fear, her anger ripen; see her smiling adoptive father transform into a spiteful, destructive, vicious, evil monster. I think of her trapped in that miniscule apartment with him all alone and I want to die.

"I _cannot_ be alone with him all summer."

I don't know what to tell her. Run away? That got her into this mess in the first place. And she was far too terrified of him to even hiccup without his say-so.

Based off of months of conversation, I had gathered that when she was seven she had run away from her real father and her step-mother. I had at first assumed that it was a Cinderella situation or something because that would at least make since. But in reality, she had just felt abandoned when her half-brothers were born. She had lived on the streets for almost a year before she was found—the girl's pretty freaking smart and could definitely take care of herself—by police. When they asked why she had run—did they hurt her? Was she unhappy? Did they… touch her?—she flat-out lied. She hadn't realized the price.

She was placed into foster care along with her two brothers, who were adopted separately and now live on the other side of the country, one in New Orleans and the other back in San Francisco, and adopted by a Mr. M. Phisher. Phisher was a successful real estate agent growing more and more powerful—Annabeth estimated that they'd be moving into a nice neighborhood soon with neat little houses, next to neat little neighbors, and a neat little yard for her to stare at glumly from the living room window.

We hear a knock on her bedroom door and she scrambles inside, shutting the window without even so much as a goodnight. I try not to let my Spiderman powers activate so I won't swoop across the gap and tackle him, maybe shove his head onto the hot stove. I watch the window, unable to see anything but her flickering lamp, and wait until he closes her door. He didn't touch her tonight and I'm so grateful.

She leans across her desk and twists the knob. The light goes out, the curtains close, and I breathe a little easier.

* * *

Chem. class is quiet the next day. She doesn't wander through the door proudly and drop her books down next to me, pretending we're nothing more than acquaintances, and silently willing me to do the same.

Some exchange student slides into her seat next to me and I grab my pencil and tap it on the desk so I don't thrust my arm out and shove him out of her seat and onto his face. He pulls out a notebook, sleek and black like hers.

"Hey, dude, the seat's taken."

He blinks over at me, registers what I said, probably scrolling through his mental Italian-to-English dictionary, and glances around the room uneasily. There's no other empty seat. It's a battle of wills; either he's going to move of his own free _will_ or I'll just _will_ him to move myself.

"I don't—"

"Yeah, but the seat's taken."

"Mr. Jackson?"

I glance over at the prim little man and slouch in my chair, muttering under my breath quietly, mimicking him in a way that would've made her laugh. The little meatball from Italy doesn't find me nearly so amusing and turns up his pointy nose at me, jotting down notes and carrying a slightly garbled conversation with the teacher about the complications of his grade and such.

* * *

My cousin's hovering around my locker, her feet spread like she's going to slip into a split, shifting her weight around and clutching the straps to her black backpack. I linger for a second by the trophy case filled with athletic awards and not but one academic trophy from 1994. She glances my way and moves aside while I work in my combination.

Her black, against-dress-code tank top accents her light tan. I smile at her blue eyes.

"Where are you going this summer? Montauk?"

My books huddle in the metal box, swallowing space, and press against the walls. I shut the door behind me. She walks along my side, us skimming the wall while people brush past us to get a glimpse of the doors at the end of the hall, ready to leave campus for lunch.

We lounge out under a tree, its skin gnarled and rough, and foliage curling up its trunk. I spread my feet and swish them, my hands tickled by the flattened grass under them. She sits atop the trash can lid and digs in her backpack until she finds a pretty green apple; she doesn't eat the red ones but rather passes them on to me or our mutual cousin, Nico.

Red skin, sticker-clad, falls in my lap.

I think of my secret and decide then that I won't go. My parents can go, they can take the annoying, curly-haired klepto from 3B if they want in my place—or a hamster, which is equally as infuriating—and they all can enjoy themselves. I wouldn't be attending this year.

"I'm staying home."

"All summer? You always go on vacation."

I look to her for a moment, inspecting her apple and not really paying me any mind, and I want to tell her about our secret. But she doesn't know Annabeth, just strongly believes I've got some sort of crush on her.

"Not this year."

"Are you hanging out with Annabeth?"

My eyes instinctively narrow and then relax because she casts scarier glares and I don't want one sent my way. I instead think that maybe that should happen. I should invite myself over, take her out, do something to keep her away from him.

"It's a strong possibility."

She smiles at green skin and sinks her teeth into it. "I thought you didn't like her."

"Not the way you think I like her. She's nice." That's what I usually tell people if they ask my opinion on her. Not to say that many people care for my opinion on her, especially not the tool that asked her out during the second quarter and then attempted to spread a rumor about her when she very publicly turned him down. Well, she rejected him quietly at first and then when he openly, during lunch and as loud as possible, asked her to be his girl she just as rudely told him she'd rather shove needles in her eyes.

I don't think she even said that to insult him, but she meant it.

She won't date, she'd said. Not anyone. And I believe her. Why would she want to get anyone mixed up in her life? She'd just have to keep half of her secret; otherwise they'd destroy the order of her universe. She likes order. She can deal with the way things are.

Anyway, I say she's nice but I'm not even sure that's entirely true. She's snarky and sarcastic, witty and funny, but not kind and sweet. She doesn't bat her eyelashes or try and spare anyone's feelings. But I am drawn to her as person, even still. She trusts me, lets me in, and I can never turn that down. I want her trust; she seems so above us all, that her choosing me is like I've gained the whole world.

"You're not sleeping with her, are you?"

"_Who do you think I am?"_

She knows better; I'm probably the only virginal guy left in the school and that's absolutely okay with me. I don't love any of these girls at this school, am hardly even attracted to them. They're all begging for it without the words and that just to me seems too desperate and shuts me off. Besides, I can't even imagine a girl without her clothes on without flushing with embarrassment and shutting my brain down completely. And her, so beyond all of our reaches, making love to me? It seems so unbearably impossible.

"Well, I was just making sure," she refutes with a 'sheesh' under her breath. She scans the campus and picks up on blond curls making their way towards us with such purpose, I sit up straight and fold my legs Indian-style.

I'm about to greet her with something I want to be witty when she reaches her hand out to me and makes a grabbing motion, hurrying me along. I grip her fingers in mine and pull myself up, knowing something's wrong. I nod back to my cousin and follow her, my fingers still curled around hers. She wasn't here just last period, but here she is, dragging me with efficient speed off to somewhere in the bowels of the school.

My mouth starts fumbling with the words _Are you okay_ but she hushes me and pulls me into the ladies' restroom. She stands quiet for a minute, examining me in my embarrassment, and I start to speak only to be stopped by her hand. A girl exits the farthest stall and doesn't even look my way, her ears pink. I know what she thinks and can only hope this isn't the news around school by sixth period.

The girl washes her hands and hurries out, her fingers fishing in her pocket for her phone.

All of a sudden, her arms are around my shoulders and she's whimpering into my neck. Her whole body's shaking and she's muttering some mantra that is muffled wonderfully. I don't know what to do. My first physical contact with her was holding her hand on the trek here and now she's flush against me. It's so sudden, I'm fumbling with ideas of how to go about comforting her, but I can't process anything in such vicinity.

I think to pat her head or something. I don't.

"Annabeth, what's going on?"

She tells me she can't talk about it here or right now, just needs me to shut up and let her be weak. I consent to this because she feels nice so close to me.

I don't want to kiss her head or hold her—it's _her_. How would I even go about doing that?—so I lean awkwardly against the bathroom wall, carefully avoiding the green chewing gum stuck between the tiles. My hands press the wall behind my back and we stay there for a long while, until the bell rings and even still half way through fifth period.

I feel her breathe hard once or twice, count the different blotches on the ugly, light olive tiles, and try to decipher what shampoo she uses. All I know is that she smells clean, like she's been in the shower all morning, scrubbing everywhere. Her hair's still damp and a little frizzy.

She straightens and adjusts her shirt, her eyes no longer crying and her hands no longer shaking, then exits the bathroom quietly. I'm left pressed against the wall, watching her.

* * *

**A/N: I'm gonna go write the next chapter now.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for the feedback, everyone! On both this and the parent-fic. It really does mean a lot to me.**

**This chapter, in my opinion, has a little more humor than in the past. Because now I've dragged in Paul and I like stranding him in Percy's company.**

**And yes, I've made Sally a Christian. Because she believes in the gods in the books, I've given her the most American alternative. And if you haven't noticed my screen name, well…**

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**Quote: **_"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as thought nothing is a miracle. The other is as thought everything is a miracle."_ -Albert Einstein**_  
_**

**Rating: T**

**Pairings: Percabeth**

**Spoilers: N/A**

**Disclaimer: For the rest of the story, this is it. Every reference, including food chains, soaps, etc., is not mine. ****Percy Jackson and the Olympians**** is not mine. Characters? Yeah, right.**

* * *

**OPERATION RESTORATION  
**_Burden Bright_

"I think it's time I meet this girl."

My mother's been pushing this for weeks, strategically easing up on the nagging just long enough for my guard to drop before striking again with the same demand. Ever since she came to wish me a good night and found me talking to her out on the fire escape, the focal point of conversation in our apartment has been Annabeth Chase.

_She seems like such a sweet girl._

_Yeah, mom, of course. Because you think everyone's sweet._

_You should invite her and her family to dinner._

_When Hell freezes over. (I'll never speak a word to that man, let alone be near him)._

_She's rather beautiful._

…_I hadn't noticed it._

The word on my mother's tongue feels like a curse. Annabeth. Guilt hangs like an intricate ornament, flashing and swaying in a light breeze of desire. I _want_ to tell. But if my mother knew the truth, the universe would cave in and become a new and terrible place where Annabeth's taken away from me and placed somewhere else; where Mr. M. Phisher throw a fit, outraged that she would open her pretty pink lips and spew what he would acknowledge as lies.

Sometimes, when mom says her name, it feels like she already does know and is only pushing me to speak up. But I can't.

Annabeth and I have become co-dependent. She can't just leave.

"Mom, no. She's not a big deal; please, just drop it," I think I might sound too harsh and I hate using that tone on my mother. So, I add a more desperate _please_ to put my conscience at ease.

She pulls the dishrag from her shoulder, glancing at me as she dries her coffee mug from the morning. Her eyes flicker back to her hands and she puffs. "Fine; I'll let it go."

I know she's not going to let it go.

"Hurry up and finish your homework; I invited a friend over for dinner."

"Is it Paul?" I shuffle through the countless letters that are diving, twirling, pirouetting across my vision searching for the outline for my essay on Medea and the honor of the female race, due Monday, as well as my annotations for the first act of King Lear.

I don't mind Paul, much. He was my English teacher for a time, before I was kicked out of that fancy school and thrown into another school that miraculously accepted me despite my record. I'm constantly battling ADHD, dyslexia, and bullies so that no matter how great the attempt, I'm doomed to fail. That school put up with me for the rest of the school year before throwing in the towel and passing me along to the next group of teachers and staff who thought they could tame me.

Paul's rather intelligent; he's my mom's age, a year or two older—I don't really know. I don't really care. He's patient and soft-spoken, but laughs heartily at good jokes and odd situations, which is why I think we get along well enough.

The only private conversation we've had was when I asked him if he was dating my mother, to which he turned a shade heavier than a tomato and said it all depended on if I was okay with that. I wasn't at the time; he was my teacher then; it was weird.

Now Paul's just my mom's "friend" who comes over from time to time, or he invites her to some fancy restaurant. They seem to think I'm still a son against mothers dating, and I don't mind it that way at all.

My mom turns from me, digging in the sink to pull up a bowl with milk and little rings of cereal still floating in it. She sighs and glances at me, half a smirk on her face, then shakes her head and proceeds with cleaning the dishes.

"Yes, it's Paul."

"So predictable," I laugh and pull out the outline. _"Honor is coming to the female race!"_ Based off of Medea, I couldn't even bring myself to half agree with the statement. She was reckless; all she did was prove to that time period of Greeks and barbarians that a woman unsupervised and free-thinking is dangerous and unpredictable. And evil. And just down-right crazy. Not exactly honorable qualities.

I think about Annabeth; cool and collected. Unbelievably intelligent. Pressed under the thumb of a man, so close to being crushed.

The thought fades, knowing it was irrelevant to the prompt, but the fire's kindled in my gut. I can't just sit by and let him ruin her.

He's ripping the wings off of a butterfly.

* * *

Paul stands in the door way awkwardly, his arm extended with a bouquet of white roses that looks more like he just ripped the bush out of the ground and tied it together with cellophane and a pretty purple ribbon. Team Paul, all the way ladies.

My mother smiles graciously and plants a quick kiss on his cheek as she sweeps into the apartment to find a vase. We own about two of them. Both are occupied with past gifts from Paul, one in her room and the other on the counter top in the bathroom.

Paul stands nervously in front of me, his eyes molesting every inch of the apartment in a desperate attempt not to meet mine. I just keep staring at him. He clears his throat.

"So, ah," he glances at my eyes and then away. "Percy, how've you been?"

I shrug.

"That's," he hesitates, maybe even chokes a little on his spit but covers it with a nervous laugh, "that's good."

He's acting impeccably weird, even for Paul, which I find highly amusing but slightly disconcerting. He was nervous. Paul's not a nervous guy. Paul's witty. And slightly disturbed; that's the only reason I can think of that he would cover for me when I accidentally set his school's band room on fire.

I think I'm rather perceptive; it just doesn't have time to show between all my ADHD remarks that make me sound like an idiot. I always, always say what I'm thinking and the filter that normal people have has passed away and moved on to some luckier guy.

"You're shaking worse than a dog crappin' a peach pit." Not my normal dialogue, but I heard it once while watching a movie on TV with Thalia and it seems to fit the situation. I remember her face blistering red, laughing so hard that air became a stranger. It makes me crack a small smile.

"Erm," he studies me, suddenly much calmer, "that's nice."

He suddenly throws his head back and laughs and I peer down the hallway my mother had wandered through, expecting her to have reappeared, but there's no sign of her shadow. I look over at him and opened my mouth, attempting to ask why he's laughing but only managing a quizzical grunt.

He calms down, still stuttering over faint wisps of laughter. "Sorry, sorry; it's just what you said and how I'm behaving tonight. It's all so odd." He giggles some more.

I hesitate, knowing suddenly why he was crapping that peach pit. "You're gonna ask my mom to marry you, aren't you?"

He sobers a little more, mirth still twinkling in his eyes and studies me briefly. "Well," he swipes his nose with the pad of his thumb, "eventually. Hopefully. But no, tonight I wanted to ask you something."

"I'm not gonna marry you."

He laughs a little more and shakes his head, "No, of course not. That's illegal. I was actually going to ask you…"

He trails off there as my mother returns, hands looking empty without the bush Paul had brought. She smiles at the two of us, seeing tears in the corners of Paul's eyes and registering it as a sign of joy.

"What are you two talking about?" She just keeps grinning and glances at me like I'll be the one to speak up first. I don't.

Paul seems to jolt awake, moving into action to cover for the previous conversation that I understand to be a secret. Of course, I wouldn't want to tell my mom about Paul's plans because she deserves that thrill of excitement and bliss. "We were just discussing school. Percy was just talking about Annabeth."

I cut my eyes to mom, my heart motionless in my throat. When did she tell Paul? And why?

I don't like the feeling of everyone knowing about her, about our relationship. It feels like a secret, a peaceful happening that's meant to exist only between us. We're each other's escape; I don't want to share her just yet.

My mom seems unsettled, like she forgot to remind Paul not to bring her up around me, but she spreads a smooth smile across her lips. "Oh yeah? I can never get him to tell me a thing. He's so secretive. What has he said?"

She winks at us and glides into the kitchen, lifting up the lid and checking on her experimental pasta. Mom likes to cook on a whim and it usually always ends up perfect. Her baked goods are even better.

With a glance at Paul, I know suddenly that I'll have to say something about her. Something to save Paul's sorry behind.

I don't even know where to start.

"Just that we're in Chem. together. She offered to help me study. And about how she's dyslexic, too. And has ADHD." I briefly remember her mentioning such but it seems so faded and unimportant in light of every other topic we've covered—which is basically the universe.

"Oh, really? Well, that should help a ton if she can work you through your dyslexia and ADHD," mom smiles, thinking she's just uncovered our biggest connection. I've given her maybe a thin silk wire in comparison to all the ropes that have tied us to the other.

I nod slightly and move to the table, motioning for Paul to join me. He trails behind and stands by my mom's seat, waiting for her to smile some more so he can push her in.

"I think it's ready," she mumbles into the pot and breathes in with a huge grin on her face.

"It smells amazing," I add, my stomach lurching at the opportunity to eat a home cooked meal.

She scoops out a couple spoonfuls into each huge pasta bowl and tells us to move our butts because she wasn't playing waitress tonight. I groan but shove out of my seat anyway, swiping the biggest bowl and sticking my tongue out at Paul behind my mom's back. When he returns the gesture, he gets caught by my mom and she slaps him with her wooden spoon. I snicker but internally wince.

Just as I'm sliding back into my seat, my back pocket vibrates. I quickly pull my phone out and hold it under the table, though I'm positive mom knows I'm texting. Which she'd normally reprimand me about, but Paul's here tonight. So she just glances at me out of the corner of her eye before bowing her head to say grace.

_I want to talk to you._

I glance at my bowl of pasta and my stomach growls in a restrained manner.

_Please come outside?_

My stomach full on roars at me.

I sigh and shove my phone back in my pocket. I wait for her to pick up her fork and spoon to properly twirl her pasta before speaking. "May I be excused?"

Her hands lower and she looks at me, almost hurt. I just look up through my lashes, hoping she'll just say yes. She wouldn't if Paul were here unless I had a reason; she loves me, as a mother should. She wants to spend time with me. But sometimes she's okay with being alone with Paul.

"Are you taking your dinner?"

My stomach's rolling around, declaring war on me. Of course I want my dinner.

"Could I?"

"Of course."

I scoop up the hot bowl and push my chair in quietly behind me, hurrying to my room.

* * *

She's watching me when I climb out of the window, her chin on her knees. "I didn't realize you were eating dinner."

"I wasn't; we just sat down."

"This can wait."

I look at her and know that it can't.

Her hair's damp and dark, the princess curls droopy and weak. All of them have been flipped to one side of her head, the rest brushed back behind her ears, and her finger keeps knotting in them and then retreating. She's not looking at me with those distant eyes, calculating and contemplating. I see that just under her arm, beneath her sports bra and above her cut-up t-shirt, striped across her ribs are red ribbons, like he scratched her with something. The same lines dance across her face. It's light and hardly noticeable, so not nearly bad enough to break skin. I still feel sick as I gaze at my steaming white, creamy noodles. Flecks of green are dancing in my vision, or maybe they're part of the pasta, I'm not sure.

I twirl my fork in the bowl and slurp some noodles, staring at her. Her eyes are at my mouth, watching me blankly. She looks away. I nibble on a few more mouthfuls before offering her the rest of the bowl, despite the heavy protests coming from my stomach. I note her trembling hands as she takes the meal from me.

It's gone within minutes.

"So what did you want to talk about?" I take the bowl back and sit it beside me, creamy sauce that lines the edges grinning up at me.

She looks uncomfortable after sharing half of my dinner, but I show her that I don't mind. I don't even spare a glance at the empty dish.

"Well?"

She twiddles her thumbs, impatiently uncertain. "Well, when I came home from school today—"

"You weren't in school today."

She looks at me oddly and quirks an eyebrow. We sit silently, both questioning the other. A noxious smell is drifting up from the alley, mingling with her clean, soapy scent. "Yes, I was."

"But you weren't in fourth?" I distinctly remember having to grind my teeth while the little meatball asked too many questions with his ridiculous accent, keeping Mr. Jones from ending his irritatingly pointless monologue so that I could copy down the notes. Annabeth hadn't been in class for a few days; I assumed she wasn't going to school.

"Oh," her eyes flicker to a person stumbling through the alley and back to me. "I got switched out. In order to move from AP Art to AP Music Theory, I had to switch Chem. classes."

"Why'd you switch? You loved your art class."

"The teacher reminded me too much of _him_."

I don't let this trouble me; I'd have been the one to tell her to switch if I had known he bothered her that much. But I miss sitting beside her, slowly growing irritated at every little mistake I made because of my dyslexia and calming down the more she talked to me, showing me my error and explaining the right answer. I had already broken two of my pencils because when I'd ask the teacher, he'd turn into a pedant and remind me that I'm in an honors class, that it was my choice to not pay attention. He'd say he didn't care if I ignored him while he "taught" but that I can't come whining to him about my grade. He says it to everyone.

"Anyway, when I came home today, I found a listing for houses on sale."

"Oh?"

"In Florida."

"_Oh._"

"He said it's possible that we won't move out of the state, but he's definitely considering it. And even if we move, it won't be until sometime next school year."

I don't know how I'm supposed to respond. I want to protest—and profusely so—yet at the same time I know that I should be there to support her, to raise her spirits. She was allowed to freak briefly and then I would be there to calm her down. "The middle of your senior year?"

She blinks, totally taken aback. She thought I'd flip. "Well… yeah."

"Where in Florida?"

"I don't know; the Keys maybe?"

"I hear it's nice year-round there."

"…Are you serious?"

"What?"

"You're _okay_ with this?"

There's a long, pregnant pause as we face off; her disbelief, like she expected me to freak out, which would only upset her further and stress her out, against my cool expression. I want any moving to go as smoothly and calmly as possible.

But being honest? All Hell broke loose somewhere inside of me. _Of course _I don't want her to go.

* * *

**Fin.**

**A/N: I wasn't going to end there. But you all deserved an update and my mom's been freaking out because I've been on the computer "all day". Which is not true. Because I've only been on for like four or five hours, max. So.**

**Also for this reason, I didn't have time to do anything but put in the line breaks, so any errors you see... Blame my mother.**


	3. Chapter 3

**I **_**know**_** moonlace isn't a real plant. I don't really care because if it was, it would be my favorite so I'm creating it in my own little world here.**

**And this chapter is leading up to some big events. Not sure if it's the climax; probably not. Okay, most likely not. But this is really a segway into bigger happenings.**

**I didn't update last Saturday because my band was at competition (dead last in our division! Take that!) and it will be the same this upcoming Saturday (which is when I try my hardest to get an update out.) Don't assume that I'm slowly dropping this story; fall's just busy since it's Football season.**

**On a totally irrelevant note I'm considering a name change. How do you, my reviewers, feel about **_**The Bystander Effect**_**?**

* * *

**Quote: **_"She learned to her dismay that she only felt loved when she wasn't being herself."_ –Joel Covitz

**Rating: T**

**Pairing: Percabeth**

**Spoilers: N/A**

* * *

**OPERATION RESTORATION  
**_Burden Bright_

The night's oddly hushed under her laughter, a sound strange and unfamiliar to me really. I try and remember other night's like this one, one of us uncovering the other and drenching each other with a vat of entertainment and sheer joy, warm and bubbly with wisps of cheerfulness ebbing and dispersing in the air, bright glows dancing across our faces. I try my best to return the favor, in excess, until we're bursting at the top with giggles.

I like the way her eyes become a lighter shade when she's trapped in bliss, smiling from ear to ear.

She dims down to a tinkering trill of laughter, the kind that makes other girls hiccup embarrassingly. Annabeth snorts.

I'm trying to pretend that it's not endearing in the least but I find her fascinating.

Spider web ribbons wrap around and threaten her, but she's held together, sturdy and well fortified by some unknown force. I wonder what makes her work, what helps her carry on, what she thinks about that gives her hope. And I want to ask but my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth uncomfortably.

She shoves her hair to sprawl across her shoulder and back, her T-shirt blotchy and wet. "Okay, new subject."

She bites her bottom lip, hugging her legs close and looking at me. Her eyes are expectant but I can see her mind whirring as she sifts through an endless catalog of topics.

"Zombie apocalypse?" She asks a little too brightly.

"…Are you serious?"

I had been fooled into believing that our talks couldn't get any stranger after we had discussed the discomfort that must come from a catheter a number of weeks ago on the night of a wedding where I had been encouraged to have a glass or two of champagne, but she bested even that.

She shrugs, mischief dancing along her features, her eyes bright. I imagine the different turns this conversation can take and hold back a fit giggles. I can't prevent the few that break through my lips, sounding more like a choked gurgle then laughter.

She's watching me but I can't think of what to say about this new turn first, so I look on at her.

"You suck."

"Thanks."

She sighs and stares up at the smog-filled night sky, her eyes flitting around as if to find the stars, her mouth quirked and nose scrunched. The long line of her neck is ensnared by the cut-up collar of her old Rolling Stones tee. Her weight shifts as she finds my eyes again.

"Okay, well say it's the apocalypse and the world's overrun by zombies—"

"But zombies don't exist."

Her mouth shuts, having been previously opened, and she watches me from the corner of her eye, giving off that _are you stupid?_ vibe I had grown accustomed to seeing. Only this time, I could return the look because I knew I was right on this matter.

"Yes, they do."

"Annabeth, you can't tell me you actually, honestly, one-hundred-percent believe in _zombies_." She's just about to retort when I cut her off with the short remark that "Bath-salts Guy doesn't count because he was high" but she just rolls her eyes.

"Contrary to popular belief, _Percy_, zombies _do_ exist. In Africa, tribes have a voodoo witchdoctor and if you offend them—"

"Okay, whatever. Say I believe you and the world is overrun by African zombies, they're still brainless."

"Which is what makes the African zombies actual zombies. The witchdoctor takes complete control and tells them what to do. But they can only come out at night."

"That's a vampire."

"_Fine. _The world's overrun by vampire-zombies—_happy?_" I nod my consent for her to persist on this ridiculous subject, still not decided on whether I should believe her on the African zombie thing. "What would your strategy for survival be?"

"Weapons. Duh," I say, already beginning to lose interest in the idea. The topic's too, pathetically worded, mainstream. "Stock up on some heavy arms and set up a base. Learn the layout quickly and efficiently, and stay hidden."

"Well, then you've already wasted time that you could've used to gather other supplies. What about food? Water supply? Batteries, flashlights, maybe even radio to search for any other survivors?" She rolls off this idea like she's given it a lot of thought. Like, somehow, being on the run from monsters, utterly alone, is something relevant—or at least, soon to be relevant—in her life. "Commandeer a high caliber gun; set up base with all the necessary equipment. _Then _stock weapons. And scout out for a secondary base, a safe house for when things go wrong."

"You sound like you know a lot about this subject."

She shrugs simply, not quite meeting my eyes and only venturing as far as my cheekbones. "Just… thinking logically." I can tell that's a lie but let it go.

The atmosphere's harsher than it had been, temperature dropping rapidly. I'm struggling to maintain my light attitude, the one that had become rare for whenever I thought about her.

"Okay," I trip around my mind, groping at anything that will perk us up again. I speak without a thought once I grasp the coattails of a question. "Who would you trip first? You know, to save yourself."

Her gaze becomes level, features solid and calculating again, shutting me out like the first day of Chem. class when she tossed her hair and promptly ignored my very presence. "Who do you think?"

My heart's numb and struggling to beat in my chest. I feel absolutely horrible, like I just punched her grandmother, only it's worse than that. Because nana would recover but my recklessness could put a dent in our relationship. She trusts me. "Ditto," I agree with a weak nod.

She sighs and straightens up, now sitting cross-legged. Her fuzzy black pajama bottoms have flecks of rust tangled up in furry clots. She picks at the flakes. "Look, I don't know what the rest of the world's gonna do," she looks up at me meaningfully. "I just know I'll fight next to you."

"Why?"

"Because you're my friend, idiot. Any more stupid questions?"

* * *

I had expected the night's conversation to end there, after she swept into her room and shut her window, red-rimmed eyes meeting mine through the smudged glass. I showered, slow and quiet, my bare back pressed against the tiled wall, then toweled off, throwing on some boxers and sweats to sleep, and proceeded to fling myself on my bed and press my face into my pillow.

My phone vibrating on my bedside table now says otherwise.

I reach out for it, noting that nearly an hour had passed and it was well into the night now. The call ends before I can answer and I see that I've missed two rings prior to this one. Both from her.

I dial back and flip onto my back, trying not to let myself succumb to the exhaustion that has me in a vice grip. She picks up but stays silent.

"Hey," I try. I get nothing in return for my efforts, which partially irritates me but I swallow it down along with my pride and attempt again. "You seemed really happy tonight."

"I meant to tell you earlier but things got… carried away and I… well, never mind." She pauses for a long time and I hear her shift around. "And you never asked. So I assumed you didn't notice…"

"What is it?"

"He's out of town till Monday. On a business trip." I can hear the weak smile, like this would've been the greatest news in the world if she hadn't left me out on the fire escape earlier. I think that maybe she's feeling guilty but I dismiss the idea. I would've left me, too, in her position.

"That's almost an entire week."

"Well, five days, but yeah."

I decide to test my luck. "Maybe we could hang out now…? Like, at your place?" I'm about to venture further when I realize the implications and quickly change the direction those tracks would take us. "Or, no. That would be kinda weird. Just the two of us. Maybe we could go out?"

She snorts and I run my fingers through my hair, acknowledging the heat in my face and hating myself for it.

"Not like that… Unless you wanted to?" My face must be a tomato so I'm thankful she saved this conversation for after we had parted. "I mean—no. Not like _that_."

"You okay?" I feel her laughter brushing against my ear.

"Yeah, I'm just drowning in embarrassment over here. Ignore me."

"It's cool," she dismisses easily and I glance out my window to see her spinning in her desk chair, her lamp flickering across her back, then front, and back again. "I get what you mean." I shift to my elbows, wanting to remember her careless and fancy-free. Her eyes catch mine. "Oh, look at you!" She visibly laughs but there's no sound this time. "Have you been working out?"

I glance down and realize my bare chest. I'm totally flustered, caught off guard by this new side to Annabeth; the girl without a Mr. M. Phisher in her life. A girl that I easily would've stalked secretly for five years, downplaying my feelings for her, before getting the guts to ask her out. And she'd easily be the girl to turn me down because she's way out of my league.

She's always had a pretty face, a nice body, but she was downright gorgeous with a smile gracing her lips.

She seems—as absurd a thought it is—giddy, now that she's cooled off. I imagine her wandering around the apartment freely, peering into every room to remind herself that he's _gone_, and maybe even trashing the place a little bit.

I know I'd be stuffing a load of crap in his favorite arm chair, if he's got one.

"I, uh," I mumble. I don't even know how to talk to her now. "Not really."

That's a lie. Paul had taken up dragging me along to the gym for "male bonding" and while I normally would've lazed my day away, I had decided to not waste the time that I had to spend there anyway.

"Percy, we should catch a movie. And stay out late. Be normal while I've got the chance."

"How come when you say it, it's not awkward at all?"

"Because I think before I speak."

* * *

Thalia tosses her backpack onto the couch and plops down. It's the kind of toss that would've knocked me on my butt if it was directed at me, her bag a rival to the weight of the world plus the force behind it. She slumps and watches me for a while, pacing irritably.

A bright light, quickly fading, is filtering in through the window that lays watch over the kitchen sink. Flecks of dust drift through the rays and then disappear from sight. A bird is chirping in the small garden that my mom and I planted on the window sill, just on the other side of the pane, moonlace curled in on itself, waiting for the night to bloom.

"It's not a date," she tells me.

"It's not a date," I agree with a nod. I hope this sinks in. I don't want it to be a date and it most certainly isn't at all like that in Annabeth's mind. There's no doubt at all that she sees us as platonic. She threatened, in one way or another, to gouge her own eyes out at the very idea of dating.

I think there's a small part of me that's just looking to be an exception, though. Because in every other aspect of life, I'm not exactly exceptional.

Plus, I don't feel for Annabeth, not in a romantic manner at all. She's my best friend in some ways, and I like being her friend. Just her friend. But still…

Another part of me wants, despite my better judgment, to at least kiss her once.

Just to know what it's like.

"It's not a date."

"If she wanted you to be her boyfriend, you two would be dating by now."

I shoot her a sharp look, knowing that's not true. Because there are circumstances surrounding our relationship, circumstances Thalia doesn't know about, ones that she'd never understand.

"How do you know?"

"Look, I don't know much about her," I nod with much enthusiasm, agreeing whole-heartedly with that. Thalia doesn't know a thing. Nothing important anyway. "But I know you, better than anyone. Except maybe her. You're so far gone, you'd buy her lady products."

I wrinkle my nose.

No, I probably wouldn't.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Then fill me in. We always talk about your lady troubles—"

"I've had, like, _two _girls _almost_ go out with me—"

"—but I haven't heard a thing about her."

That was true. Thalia mostly just observes her walk by, studies the looks on our faces as our eyes meet and I turn away. She knows what she looks like, could probably pick her out of a crowd, and understands that our friendship is one kept under wraps.

She got an even better idea of how well we hide it when Nico, our cousin, approached us once to talk all about the hot new girl, asking if we had met her yet because she had switched into his Chem. class halfway through the year. (That had just served to piss me off. Some possessive part of me almost surfaced and told him to forget it.)

"The lady products thing was a shot in the dark," she admits, "but I know there's something going on between you two."

"Yeah, we're friends."

"I don't buy that." She reaches her hand in, sorting through papers and binders, and pulls out our Macro homework. "So where are you taking her?"

"We're just going to the movies."

"I thought you were staying out all night." She flips through the packet, her countenance contorting to frustration and a vicious sneer. "I _hate_ Macro. With a fiery passion."

I slide onto the couch next to Thalia and throw my head back on the cushion. I don't quite understand why but suddenly the words are caught up in my throat, trying to force their way out. My whole body aches from the emotional drainage. The supposed date with her doesn't even faze me right now; my mind's devoid of the nerves I would've expected in any other similar and equally unlikely situation. All of the baggage that Annabeth comes with is weighing me down.

I feel sick to my stomach.

"I don't think I can do this."

Thalia looks at me. "Dude, you're going to the _movies _not asking her to marry you. Chill."

I can't explain the nausea that's rolling through me to her. Because if I told her the truth, I don't know what she'd do. Or what Annabeth would do.

"Whatever."

* * *

"We can't stay out too late," I tell her as she slides into the passenger seat and I into the driver's side. "My mom's got church in the morning."

She pulls the door shut and half-smiles at me. "You go to church?"

"Not really," I admit with a shrug. "But she's gonna stay up in the living room watching re-runs of Law and Order until I get home. And she'll be pretty pissed if I make her skip out on her eight hours."

She nods with that same smile, like she totally understands, and lays her head back on the head rest, eyes fluttering closed. A light laugh trembles as it passes through her lips and her head rolls, eyes opening to look at me.

"I can't believe he's gone."

I bite back my _for now _comment and smile back, kicking the car to life and making my way toward the city.

The entire car ride is endured in an impenetrable silence, her watching street lights go by. Her finger traces invisible lines across the window, her whole face brighter than I had seen it before, and I study this appearance on her when we're trapped at a red light. She's renewed by peaceful nights where she's not sent to bed hungry or beaten like an animal. The thought warms me.

When I pull into the theater parking lot, she turns on me, the whimsical and dazed mask replaced by one of utter seriousness.

"Can we pretend?"

I pull the key from the ignition.

"I know it sounds stupid," she adds, "but I'm—I'm trying to cram high school into this weekend. Could… could we do that?"

**Fin.**

**I actually really hate this chapter. A lot. Like, despise it. But I couldn't keep myself from updating and I wanted to get it over with so I could move onto the next one. Which is totally lame, but whatever. It's just the mood I'm in.**

**I'll probably regret it in the morning…**

**As an afterthought: I made references, eheheheheh. Find them?**


	4. Chapter 4

**Saturday is the day I aim for on the matter of updates. However, some weekends are just unbelievably busy. So I'm trying to make this work; next week should be easier for updates. We'll see.**

**And on marching band MPAs: Straight Superiors! Also, I belly bump this one guy in the show and he used too much force, I lost my footing and fell on my butt, leading me to inevitably miss the halt and step-off. That, ladies and germs, was a fabulous run.**

**When I say "get the feel of 'high school'", it's a reference to the last chapter.**

* * *

**Quote: **_"Peace has to be created, in order to be maintained. It is the product of Faith, Strength, Energy, Will, Sympathy, Justice, Imagination, and the triumph of principle. It will never be achieved by passivity and quietism."_ -Dorothy Thompson

**Rating: T**

**Pairing: Percabeth**

**Spoiler: N/A**

* * *

**OPERATION RESTORATION  
**_Burden Bright_

It happened immediately when I slid out of the car and drifted to her side. We were heading up to the theater when she grabbed my hand and I stopped to look at her, to gauge her reaction to my uncertainty. She met my eyes and gave a small jolt of the shoulder to gesture me onward. I did, hoping I'd get the feel of 'high school' soon.

I don't remember the past few years, my entire high school career, being this pleasant, this calm.

We wandered inside, me gripping our tickets in my other sweaty and spastic palm, scanning the counter for the smallest line of movie-goers. Annabeth tucked in close to my side to make us as small as possible, families and dates and hordes of friends pressing against us to scurry off to their respective theaters. She hovered near my ear and whispered over the dim roar that she wanted a bag of M&Ms and a blue slushy. Even now I remember the feel of her sweet, warm breath on my ear, her closeness.

We had picked seats near the center aisle, wiggling past an elderly couple and their granddaughter, and settled in, moving the arm rest out of the way. I propped my feet up on the arm rest of the chair in front of us and she promptly draped hers across mine, like a safety bar trapping me in, casual and not even noticing the sting of her smooth skin on my masculine legs.

Now, the film is just beginning so I tear open her candy bag and slip it onto her lap for her, burrowing deeper into the seat, trying to disregard the illogically cold temperature of the theater. My skin is blistering under her touch. She shifts to rub her ankle with the side of her shoe, skin brushing mine and my throat feels tight. She pops a few M&Ms into her mouth and glances at me briefly with a small smile, holding out the package.

I quickly deny and sink down further, crossing my arms across her shins.

I don't know how long the film's been running but at some point she turns to meet my eyes, her expression clouded and incoherent, as the deranged girl, beaten in youth and mocked in the shift to adulthood, bludgeons her parents. At first the pristine white feathers drift and kiss the ground but they soon fade and fall heavily, red and sticky.

Her eyes are hard. The expression is one I'm accustomed to seeing that it soothes my stiff joints and eases the unsettled mess of my mind.

With no warning for either of us, I lean in quickly and press a kiss just on the corner of her mouth, thinking nothing of it. She wanted to pretend; I have to remind myself of that. When I pull away her eyes are dazed, half-lidded like she isn't sure of how to react.

Simultaneously, a scream roars through the audience and she slides off of my lap and out of her seat, hurrying to the door.

I sit for a while longer, clutching the bag of candy in my hands, wondering what the _hell_ just happened, until a point in the movie where I'm watching the leading male get jumped by his sister. I follow her up the aisle and out into the disturbingly bright lights of the theater lobby.

Scatters of late teens and families are milling around, still purchasing snacks or still _waiting_ to purchase snacks and I get crushed between some tourists and shoved by some jerks from school before I spot her, staring at her lap and sitting alone on a bench across the way.

My eyes stay on her as I drift forward, faltering only when some strange foreigners pass in front of me with candy bundled in their arms like it's their livelihood.

"Hey," I mumble, dropping next to her. She shoots a glare sideways and stares harder at her lap, twiddling her thumbs. I wait and people-watch for a while, cataloging the remainders of the crowd from before our own movie started, wondering what's going on in this chapter of their stories right now. I know mine's a blur of lines and candy and curious skin on skin. She sighs and slaps her hands on her thighs.

"Percy." My eyes dart to her and then away. "We can't… I mean, you can't," she growls out of frustration. "That stuff isn't allowed. You're not allowed to—where do you get the idea that you can just… There will be no falling for me, _understand_?"

I wonder, somewhere in the back of my mind, if it's too late for that.

"Who said I fell for you?"

But she ignores me, caught up in her own flustered mind. "And if you fell for me, you're smart enough to realize you should keep it to yourself."

"Who said _anything_ about me falling for you?" My tone is a little too disbelieving, it's borderline harsh. It's not impossible to fall for her, despite the words spilling from my mouth, but my stubbornness says that it hasn't happened. It won't happen. Shouldn't happen.

"We can't do that," she reiterates.

"You must think an awful lot of yourself if you think—" Oh, shut up now, Percy. Just… stop.

"Well, what am I supposed to think when you kiss me like that?!" Like what?

We hold eyes, neither backing down. I feel like punching something, but there's no reason I should be angry. Maybe it's that she's pushing me away for no reason. I'm not like the rest; she knows that. She knows how our relationship works and yet she's rejecting a small bit of the normalcy she asked for.

People kiss all the time in high school; people kiss each other for no reason. Happy, sad, nauseous, peeved; we sleep, eat, study sometimes, kiss, and party. We are high schoolers.

"I think," she stops her gaze at the front entrance. "I think it would be best for you to take me home now."

"Annabeth."

"Take me home."

"Annabeth, c'mon—"

"Percy," her voice and eyes snap at me. "Please."

* * *

We don't sit out on the balcony and talk, but I watch the closed curtains through her window, hoping she's thinking about what I'm thinking about.

I hope she's thinking about that kiss, hope she's thinking about me, hope she's thinking about us.

I hope she's thinking about herself for once, and not what _he_ will say or think or do.

* * *

I can't sleep. My skin's crawling; my heart's drumming in my throat.

Hours have passed and my restlessness hasn't subsided in the least. Anxiety swells in my chest, branding me with the inability to breathe anything in but the thoughts of her. Thoughts of life, of her future and my own; thoughts of my past that seems so relentlessly perfect in comparison and of the present.

Every few minutes my eyes of their own accord look to her, only to find a dark room behind a wispy drape.

I think of her constant phone calls, ones that I missed, and decide that it wouldn't be so awkward and desperate if I were to do the same.

She picks up on my third attempt and I hear a "Nanny" rerun, a nasal Queens woman chortling. Similar to our last conversation over the line, we reign in with a silence around us. She breathes a few times heavily, prompting me, but I have nothing to really say. Nothing that I should discuss but my own curiosity.

But I think that the answer would only upset me.

We burn through the rest of the episode with no words passed, no attempts encouraged.

When Roxanne or Rosanne—whatever her name is, though it presently escapes me—starts to play through the connection, my tongue pokes out and runs along my lips. I breathe once or twice, assuring myself that she can hear me. But she refuses the bait; she won't speak first.

It's fair enough, I guess. She left angry. I would do the same.

Okay, Percy. Swallow your pride now; she's much too stubborn, much too pompous.

I hum something incoherent and earn a small, inquisitive grunt in response.

"I said: have you ever thought about running away again?"

"…Yes," she answers warily. "Why?"

I give a shoulder shrug and close the door to my room, not wanting to wake my mom in the next room over, and click on my bedside lamp as I crawl over the sheets to lie on my stomach. "When we talked about zombie apocalypses," a grunt; she acknowledges the conversation, "It sounded… Well, it sounded like you had given it a lot of thought. Running away, I mean. Not zombie apocalypses."

I imagine a short and unobtrusive nod over a bowl of ice cream. "I think about it all the time."

"What stops you from doing it? Are you afraid?"

I think of my real father stepping in on my family suddenly, unannounced and unwelcome, only to morph into a man of similar character as that of my first step-father. With uncalled for beatings, threats that are anything but idle and constant demands that had to be met. I wonder briefly if that's what Mr. M. Phisher is at all like. If he gives a stern eye before he pulls off his belt, or if he swallows up his income through his beer cans and cigar filters.

But I know it can't be that simple. Because I've heard some pretty creative punishments from Annabeth, like swirlies, only in a bathtub that doesn't drain, and noogies that aren't received with a playful group of knuckles, but rather a contraption that he straps on his hand with bottle tops glinting metallic teeth at her. And their money doesn't disappear down short, grotesque throats so much as into nice homes in Florida.

I think, though, that it's not a matter of courage. Because the fear of staying seems more dominant. What can he do when she's already gone?

"Yes, I am." Her voice is tight and I furrow my eyebrows, ready to yell that she just needs to get the hell out of there; it'll change everything. "Not just for the reason you think."

"Then why?"

"Percy," I hear her sigh and wonder if she's going to unload something on me when we're not outside in the cool air where the stories can be swept away. In my tiny bedroom, I'd be suffocated under her crushing admission. The words tight and vibrating with nowhere to escape to within my four walls.

"I'm terrified of never seeing you again."

* * *

My eyes break open at around noon, maybe a half hour past, and my ears are flooded with the sounds of bacon blistering and popping on a pan, maybe sausage links. I sit myself upright, my cell phone thrown to the floor, probably shoved from my bed in sleep. I click the 'UNLOCK' button to find its life depleted from remaining on, uncharged all night, connected to her line. Her muted breaths curled in through the phone and lulled me out of consciousness last night and I feel my body swarming with restful warmth.

I slip out of my room, still wearing my khaki shorts from last night, my swaddled-in-socks feet padding lightly across the wood paneling. I wipe my shirt sleeve that had hid under a black button-up last night across my eyes and slide into my seat at the dining table, acknowledging the man across from me fleetingly.

"Percy," mom reprimands. "Where are your manners?"

When I lift my eyes, it's not Paul across from me. He's in the kitchen with mom, cooking, decked out in his Sunday best. No, the man across from me is not nearly so trim. His hair's unruly on his head, nearly a lustrous black and he has bright eyes that I've seen somewhere before.

I can't quite place him, but the recognition must be evident on my face.

He's got a sort of lop-sided smile that I recognize from time to time on my own face.

Sue me for being suspicious.

"Who are you?"

"Percy!" Mom's exasperation doesn't deter me, though I know I shouldn't be nearly as rude as I am.

"No, it's fine, Sally." He smiles some more at me and extends his hand. "Percy, right?"

I study his outstretched palm, the long and slender fingers reaching out to me, but make no move to uncross my arms from the table. His very presence unsettles me. I look back to his mischievous features glowing with mirth and roll my eyes. My head falls back on my arms.

Mom's gonna skin me alive later for leaving my manners in the bedroom, but I don't like this guy for numerous reasons that are unknown to me.

Mom nudges me with a spatula then dishes out scrambled eggs to me and our unwelcome guest. I straighten to make way for her and grip my fork, studying the man warily as I make an attempt at stabbing an egg menacingly. It doesn't work out when I skewer nothing and the clank is embarrassingly loud, but I swallow my blush and scoop up food.

Paul slides a covered plate of bacon onto the center of the table.

"Percy," he meets my eye and I think he catches my uncertainty of who this man is then because his face smooths out immediately. It's soothing; I don't think Paul would be so suave if he were confirming my fears. "This is my frat brother, Jeremiah."

In an instant, my shoulders slouch; I hadn't realized they were pinched before. My spine curls and I lean in my chair. I relax.

"Nice to meet you."

Mom raises an eyebrow at me but shakes it off, sitting with us and extending her hands out to her sides to say grace. I take her warm one and Paul's baby-smooth grip. With a recently cleared mind, I watch Jeremiah's face as his eyes close and his head bows. Mom clears her throat and Paul picks up a prayer.

"Dear Lord, thank you…"

I tune out as a strangled gasp catches in my throat. His thick eyebrows aren't quite so business-like; they're unkempt and casual. His face is rid of professional wrinkles; he doesn't have that nauseating crease in his forehead. His hairs count his years with youthful glee, only the occasional grey one popping out, not littering his head and staining his sideburns.

But everything about him radiates _him_ that I'm certain now.

When they open their eyes, he catches me staring—maybe I'm even glaring—and drops his hands.

"Yes?"

"Does Jeremiah have a last name?"

Mom nudges me with her foot under the table, her countenance disturbed. I get the subliminal message. _What are you doing?_

"Of course he does," Jeremiah says and sips his orange juice.

"Is it _Phisher _by any chance?" I'm bitterly certain, my tongue betraying me in its clipped tone.

"Percy," Mom tries but Jeremiah answers smoothly like I don't even bother him. Like I'm just humoring him and he thinks he'll keep me around to be his new-found court jester. But I won't be his fool so much as his worthy adversary.

"You must be psychic," he grins. Undisturbed.

"Lucky guess."

The logical part of my brain is telling me adamantly that it's not her adoptive father because his name begins with an _M _but my blind rage overrides it. I can't choke down anymore of my brunch, but I know better than to follow my aching muscles that scream for a fight or flight.

"Did Paul ever tell you the time he got confused on one of his dates? Beautiful girl," he turns from my mom to Paul with a brilliant smile. "What was his name? Ruben? Randy?"

Paul's whole face bursts with a flaming red and he wipes his mouth awkwardly with his napkin, laughing uncomfortably. "Oh, we need not mention that—"

"Or what about in '96 when we went down to Key West for Halloween? Fantasy Fest, remember?" Paul's a tomato now and Jeremiah's busting at the seams with hearty laughter. "Do you still have those pictures? Our costumes were the bomb!"

"Hardly," Paul mumbles, not meeting my mom's eyes. I temporarily forget Jeremiah's surname, too immersed in where this conversation is headed.

Jeremiah starts gesturing wildly and I get the impression that Fantasy Fest is a strictly adult setting; incredibly sinful and sort-of enticing to my hormonal teenage boy half.

Through the kitchen window, with a brief glance, I catch the dingy brick wall and remember that just a little out of view is her bedroom window and my irritation is back.

"Mr. Phisher," I address. His gestures stop and everyone looks back at me; his hand lowers slowly. His expression falls, along with my mother's and oh God I can't stand the look she's giving me…

"Dude, Mr. Phisher is my _brother_," he gives a small laugh, deciding to brush off my rude interference of his undoubtedly masterfully-crafted story (and I think such with the utmost of sarcasm). "I'm just Jeremiah."

Brother. _Brother_.

His brother.

I mull it over too long because the trio of adults strikes up their conversation again. I try to sit calmly, to save my interrogation for later when everyone's full, sleepy and content, too tired to register my attitude. My fork runs around my plate, chasing the eggs and bacon desperately. But my tight throat and impatience reject the food, starving my aching and gurgling stomach.

I sit steely and outwardly calm as they exchange small talk and big laughs, burning through at least a half hour of Paul's-hour-of-embarrassment before my lips dry. When I lick them, the words tumble out.

"Do you know Annabeth?"

"Percy!" Mom's trying hard to cover for my brash attitude. I'm coming off as crass and uncaring, which is not at all how she raised me to be. But I'm not feeling much like the son she raised right now. I feel like the man with a family to protect and defend: a position unfamiliar with me.

The smile is smeared off of Jeremiah's face immediately, replaced with exhaustion and almost disgust. I hate that face, the one he's giving me, the one that appeared at the sound of her small, unguarded name.

"Yes," his tone is indifferent but I can see in his eyes that now I've crossed some sort of line; a sore subject that I should've never dared to approach. I revel in the feeling of making him so cross.

"Your brother adopted her."

"Yes." I can taste the _unfortunately_ on both of our tongues.

"Percy, what is this about?" Mom's cutting her eyes at Paul like he can stop me now that I'm riled up. As if he can or will pull me to the side for a quick talk, man-to-man, about what is and isn't appropriate at the dining table with guests over.

"Have you ever met her?"

He doesn't disguise the word at all this time when he tells me that he has unfortunately had the chance of making her acquaintance. I loathe him; I'm seething. He says it like she's a disease, like she's the ringworm-like blotch on the side of his brother's face, marring him in the public eye.

"What do you think?"

"About her?" He sets down his silverware, not even bothering to smooth out the canyon we've approached. We stand on opposing sides of it, looking intently on with hard eyes and sharp lines for our mouths, his hiding a forked tongue, I'm sure. I'm daring him to make the plunge.

"In general."

"She's a miserable stain on his track record of good decisions." Mom gasps, her mouth falling open. Her eyes widen. I remember mom's opinion of Annabeth: _a sweet girl_. "She makes him despondent. The one time we ever met, she was secretive, rude when she addressed him, hardly even acknowledged me. She's rebellious, ignorant, reckless—sneaking around with some boy, apparently. Who knows; probably doing drugs or sleeping around."

I feel my whole body stiffen, my steely gaze on him, and I think he recognizes that I'm the guilty party because his eyebrows quirk and he's back to being a bubbly frat brother holding onto youth.

"Oh," he says simply. "Well."

My mother no longer finds Jeremiah amusing. I shove out of my chair and slip down the hall, listening to Paul and mom escort him to the door—

"I didn't realize…"

—but my cares are elsewhere. I now realize how _he_ can hide the truth so well. A silver tongue, a cheerful disposition; they run merrily through a family of underhanded, brooding young men.

* * *

"I'm sure he didn't mean it, honey," mom tells me, running her fingers through my hair. She came in after sending Paul to clear the table and do the dishes—normally my job, but I don't mind sharing.

I love my mother, her sweet and wonderful nature, naturally perfect. Just a smile from her and I feel at peace. And normally she reads me so well that it's almost disturbing, but now she doesn't stand a chance against the dark closeted secret I've been keeping for the past year. Right now, it's just a rude comment from some guy that Paul met in college.

No big deal.

I bury my face deeper into my pillow so she won't see my clenched teeth; stick my hands under my pillow so she won't see the fists that leave me white-knuckled. Her fingers catch a knot and she smoothes it out, then presses a firm kiss to the top of my head.

I feel Annabeth's fingers trail up my arms, feel her screams grinding against my brain and I wonder how on earth she could be labeled the evil one. How does a girl in that situation ever deserve the blame?

**Fin.**

**Dang it. The little details of this chapter took up too much of it. The important stuff I guess will have to be moved into the next chapter because this filler crap took up nine freakin' pages.**

**Like, what the heck? Can you not do as I planned?**

**I suppose not. It's rather upsetting, but oh well. I suppose you have something to look forward to now. If you didn't before.**


	5. Chapter 5

**This took so long because I began writing it out last Saturday but couldn't finish. Then had to pick it up again today. And when I do that, it takes a while for me to get back in my writing groove. So I'm uncertain about this chapter.**

* * *

**Quote: **_"When it hurts to look back and you're scared to look ahead, you can look beside you and your best friend will be there."_ -Unknown

**Rating: T**

**Pairing: Percabeth**

**Spoiler: N/A**

* * *

**OPERATION** **RESTORATION**  
_Burden Bright_

I rap lightly on her front door, a place I don't often find myself, and grind my sneakers on her faded 'WELCOME' mat. I don't really expect the door to open but there she is, grey cotton shorts and a Garth Brooks t-shirt-made-midriff hanging on her shoulders, exposing her tight, tan stomach, exposing tips of scars that riddle her body, exposing her. Her hair's tied in a messy bun, a small self-serving tub of Ben and Jerry's in her hand.

She blinks and digs her spoon around, shimmying a scoop up the side of the carton. I can see it in her eyes; she has decided that she won't let last night get in the way. I can see it in the way that her nose scrunches up as she pops a pink mound into her mouth, in the lines at the corners of her eyes as she smiles briefly. I see it in how she stands, leaning on the door frame with her weight on one foot.

"I was thinking," I start, eyes fixed on the ice cream. "We should try hanging out again. In a more… casual setting."

Last night we'd been surrounded by couples. Guys holding their girls tight as he ordered her a snack and paid for it (unless they were _those_ guys who didn't even bother to pretend that he wanted to pay for her, which was only the gentlemanly thing to do). Lovebirds curled around each other in the dark theater, sucking face.

After hours of thought, I had decided that the atmosphere, all the different sights and sounds, had gone to my head and I acted without thinking.

She nods and moves aside to invite me in. I don't budge.

"I won't bite," she assures me.

"It's not you; I just gotta tell my mom that I'm here." She raises an eyebrow and licks the outward curve of her spoon slowly, watching me. I swallow. "I didn't think I'd get this far before you shut the door…"

She laughs and skewers the ice cream, firmly planting the spoon so that it stands on its own.

"So I told her I'd be home in five."

Her laugh builds. "Well, go tell her and come over. I don't have all day.

This time I laugh. Because, really, she does. I do. We do.

We have all day and that's a nice thought.

* * *

"Come on." She still has the carton in her hand but I can see that it's empty for the most part as she leads me in. Her hair's splayed across her back and shoulders now, ringed and curly, and her hair-tie's wrapped around her wrist tightly.

"So are we just gonna hang out here?"

"I don't feel up to going anywhere right now." She drops her ice cream in the trash and I can't help but notice her eyes lingering on the mirror across the room for just a moment too long before she snaps her gaze to me. "Besides, I'm not exactly dressed for it."

She pulls her shirt up a little higher, revealing a puckered white line just under her rib cage, her eyes trained on the scar in the mirror. She didn't even need to move the drape; given a few minutes I would've noticed it.

I feel my fingers itching to reach out to her, but quick as a light she drops her tee and slumps on the couch. Her arm swings around the back of it and she points to the bar that separates the kitchen from the living room.

"Grab the deck, will you?"

I swipe up the box of cards and toss them onto her lap as I settle in next to her; she tucks her legs and leans into the dark leather, pulling out the deck and throwing the box to the coffee table. "What games are you good at?" She shuffles the stack easily and skillfully.

"None."

"Then this should be fun." She catches my eye briefly and smiles. "Have you played Egyptian Rat Screw?"

"Excuse me?"

Her smile stretches even wider across her lips and she lets the wispy beginning of a laugh protrude. I feel my heart curl up in my chest tightly. And then, when she looks at me, it roars to life, so light that I think it will flutter right up my throat and take off.

"I'm about to blow your mind."

Oh goodness.

* * *

Egyptian Rat Screw did eventually blow my mind.

It was a slow-coming explosion, the fuse lighting in secret and slowly crawling up the length, licking and lapping up my patience. With every pile up of the cards, with every stack that I had to let go by me to meld with her own, I was slowly getting irritated. But I didn't even notice it until about half an hour later when I know I hit a sandwich—that _was_ a _freakin' sandwich_ before I slapped it.

I slapped my few remaining cards down and threw my hands up.

"Forget it!"

She only smiled smugly at my frustration, taking up yet another pile of cards.

"Maybe we should do something else," she snickered and brushed all of the cards into a massive clump and clicked the bundle heavily on the table to adjust them. She casted me a short glance from the corner of her eye then.

We lounge, now as we've been for the past hour, across her floor with her back pressed to the couch and me relying on my palms. Spread out between us is an entire nation, inconsequential beings wafting across a smooth expanse, trading and growing an empire that will mean nothing when all is said and done. It's a ruthless and cut-throat world, Monopoly is.

She smiles at me when I land on her amusement park. She smiles some more when I grumble, counting out paper bills. And then some more when I hand over a bundle.

And there she lingers, maybe too long, our fingertips pressed on each other.

I pull away, remembering the effect our closeness had on her last night and willing it to not happen again. "How do you even win Monopoly?"

She doesn't want to talk about Monopoly though.

"Percy," she stares down at her stacks of multi-colored papers as she lays down what was once mine. I feel her tone seeping in through my pores and settle myself by curling my legs and leaning forward on my elbows.

"Mmm?"

"I know that last night I," she hesitates, still not meeting my eye, "that I _pushed you away_. And I should've talked to you instead of making you take me home."

"Are you trying to apologize?"

"Hell _no_," she cuts her eyes at me fiercely and then softens almost immediately. But with the tender countenance I lose her confidence to look at me directly. I don't know which I prefer. "I don't apologize. To anyone."

I nod a little but I know it's not true. I've heard her before fleetingly, screaming about how sorry she is at the top of her lungs. Her voice so briefly breaking through all the rest of the chaos haunts me now as she apologizes profusely to him for absolutely nothing. For _absolutely nothing._

"Then what are you getting at?"

I don't think she's going to answer me, shuffling around and jumbling up all of her neatly separated piles until she's got a mess of faded and dull pinks, blues, yellows and greens. And she doesn't. Not really, anyway. She stands quietly and just hovers there, looking down at me, peeking through eyelashes almost nervously.

I just about get myself to say her name, but then I don't want to scare her off. She's gathering some bit of courage, I know. I've spent enough time with her to recognize the face she makes.

She side-steps the table and reaches out a hand, pulling me to my feet. Before my knees even get a chance to draw me to my full height, she catches my forehead with her lips and remains. I can't help my eyelids; I'm not strong enough. They weaken at her touch. I feel my breath more than ever before, feel my blood burning under my skin and rushing whimsically in my veins.

Her name is at the tip of my tongue again but it comes out more as an "uh" that could be confused as a moan easily.

She pulls my face up just a little more and stops me again to brush her lips on the tip of my nose. This time she doesn't loiter, instead pulling me up higher. Her fingers run across my eyebrows and lightly down the bridge of my nose. She grips my face and opens my eyes with the pads of her thumbs and I find her close.

I am not okay. I am not. I am.

She presses her mouth to mine. And just when I think she's had enough, when she pulls away, she sends me reeling by coming back for more. And more, more, more, more.

I think I should pull her to me or something but our bodies maintain an uncomfortable distance.

The final time Annabeth pulls away, I try to bring her back. But she's decided that we should stop and she refuses, licking her lips and staring at my shoes.

"What just happened?"

"_That's_ what I was getting at. But, um," her eyes flit around, lightly landing on everything, every piece of me. "I don't want a relationship like that. With you." I think I feel myself literally begin to break, like this time I might be the one to tell her that this day is done. She must see it on my face—I don't mean for her to see it—and silently adds, "for now. If we were anyone else, it would be different but…"

"Then why?"

"I thought about you last night. All last night. I couldn't stop thinking about how you kissed me. It made me forget, Percy. It made me feel normal, just like I asked. I want you to kiss me today. Whenever you like, just kiss me and mean it and I think that maybe I could be okay."

I'm slightly miffed but don't mind too much her using me in this way—I can't deny that I'm very clearly a hormonal teenage boy. I just know that come tomorrow, there will be no physical interaction and I won't handle it well at all. "Okay, Annabeth. I can do that."

"If we were anybody else," she tells me, wrapping a hand around my neck and pulling me to her.

"If we were anybody else."

* * *

I stretch on her couch, nudging her shoulder with my foot where she sits at the other end on the floor, watching our third movie. ABC Family's playing a marathon of Disney classics and promising films. Despicable Me is nearly over and when it cuts to a commercial break she looks at me. Wordlessly she comes, crawling over me to lie between my body and the back of the couch. She folds her arms in between us.

"I wish an evil scientist had adopted me."

I don't comment.

"Are you hungry, Percy?"

I nod without really thinking, watching the movie with false intent. My mind is on her leg that she's brushing against mine, from between both my legs to the top of my shin and back again.

"No, Annabeth, I'm not hungry," I murmur and turn away from her, pulling my hands up under my head. She wraps around me, her cheek pressing between my shoulder blades. "It's getting late; maybe I should go home." The clock reads well past eight and I know my mom won't approve of me staying with her too late. I shut the television off.

"You okay?"

"I'm okay."

"I don't think you are."

"Then I'm not."

She slides her hand under my shirt uncertainly and I flinch at her cool finger tips. She presses her open mouth to the back of my neck again and again. "Please be okay."

The clock keeps moving, faster and faster, and I know it will come to an end. There's not enough time. There's never enough time. The longer the day goes on, the more time I lose of a happy, peaceful Annabeth. I lose her smiles, her kisses.

"I can't leave, Annabeth."

"No one asked you to." She sits up on her elbow with a furrowed brow, her hand sliding down to rest on my abdomen. "You can stay a little longer, you know."

"No. I mean, I can—I _will_. But what about tomorrow? What about when he's back?" I roll over, her hand sliding to the small of my back where it excites my skin more than ever, our faces so close it should be unbearable. But it's not for me. Maybe it is for her, though, so I back away. Her hand moves to my hip.

"What about it?"

I can't help my silence. What words should I have that would explain what we both already know? So I just stare at her; a little disbelieving, a part miffed, and a pinch of compassion. I stare and so does she.

I don't want to talk about it anymore.

"Never mind." I slide off of the couch with her close on my heels and wander into the kitchen to grab two glasses that I'll fill with icy water. I've got a headache brewing that I want to fight off immediately.

She takes the one I offer and sets it on the counter.

"Percy, talk to me."

I take a sip and drift around her, back into the living room. Dropping on the couch, I scan for the remote control for her television. She trails behind without her water and stands on the other side of the coffee table.

"Hey," she starts. I run my hand across the cushions because I already decided that it wasn't worth talking about. And hell, if I'm not stubborn then I'm nothing. I'm pouting and she knows it, but I can't care at the moment. "Percy, what does it change if he comes back?"

I scan the floor.

"Hmm?"

Leave me alone, Annabeth.

"Tell me what changes. What? I don't kiss you anymore?" She pauses for a long time. "No, I don't think it's that."

I don't think it is either. Though I will miss that.

"We never kissed before and you were okay with that. Is it that I won't smile as much?"

She notices these changes too? She realizes how the whole world is brighter when he's not around? That's good.

But no, it's not about her smile. No matter how much I love her smile, it can't just be that. I can't be _that_ selfish; I'm not that selfish.

"Of course not. Sometimes I think you like it better when I don't smile."

"I like your smile." I'm whispering pathetically. I'm being pathetic. But I don't trust myself to continue to talk. I might explode if I do and then what? I leave? If I don't go willingly, she'll surely kick me out. I already decided that I can't do that yet.

"He talks."

…

"Or not. C'mon, Percy, what is it? Are you afraid he'll hit me again?"

Yes, Annabeth. Hell yes. He's going to touch you and I'm going to be the useless one out on the fire escape twiddling my thumbs so you can tell me all about it. And then I'll change the subject so that maybe you can forget. But you won't; how could you? Then you'll go to bed and I'll go to bed and the day starts over in an endless cycle of you getting beaten and me knowing silently but not having the balls to say so.

"Because you know he will. He always does."

"Can we not talk about it?" I've been talking about it for a year. I've been listening to her, listening all about it and tonight feels like the one night where we should pretend that it doesn't exist. The truth should become a lie. It should become something of the imagination.

And by some delusion, I think that us keeping quiet makes it go away.

"Just because we don't talk about it doesn't mean it's not real. We'd just be fooling ourselves. It's real, Percy… Will you look at me? Look me in the eye."

I feel her getting angry, feel her frustration and see it from the corner of my eye burning down her throat as she swallows. When I do look she's holding her wrist, then running her hand up and down her arm. She steps around the table and stands between my knees.

Before I can even think, she pulls her shirt over her head and I have to avert my eyes. It's not because I was raised that way, not completely anyway. But I respect her. I can't look at her too far that way, too intimately. Kissing is easy but half-naked would kill me. And then beyond that reason, I can't see her body so distorted and scarred.

Pink lines and fading yellow bruises haunt her, ghosts of her past literally painting her skin. She's so unbearably wounded that my eyes have to fall away.

"Look at me."

Before I can even think of doing such a thing she grabs my hand and runs my fingertips lightly across her skin. It's puckered and raised in some places. Our hands trail across her ribs, just under the wire of her bra, across her left hip bone, across her collar bone where the bad break was. But I can't look.

I pull my hands away, maybe too roughly. "Okay. Okay, I get it, Annabeth. It's—yeah, it's real. I get it." She kneels in front of me. The black silk of her bra makes the clear skin she has left glow warmly. Her breasts become pale and pretty as they lead into the material. "Can you put your shirt back on now?"

She presses a kiss under my ear, making me burn for her. I realize what this is for her now. If I'm right, she's accepting her fate. She is resigning the fight. She's given me proof of existence of the extent of her pain and now we are more connected than ever before. And if I know, then she can't lie to anyone about it. This is her life.

She slowly guides her shirt over her body again and pushes me back. Her body spreads across mine. Her hand presses on my chest.

"Go on, stupid," she mutters into my shirt. "Find that remote and put on some Disney."

* * *

I don't know when we fell asleep—somewhere between Lion King and the Princess and the Frog—but I wake to the T.V. still playing and Annabeth snoring not-so-softly and every light in the apartment still blaring. But when my mind starts processing the world around me, I catch the sound of a door. A key sliding into the lock.

My heart stops in my throat.

My arm around Annabeth tightens and I grip her shoulder viciously. She shifts in her sleep and her face distorts, scrunched up.

"Annabeth?"

I can't breathe. I cannot physically force myself to breathe in, breathe out, breathe in. I cannot.

"Hey, _Annabeth_. I'm home."

"Son of a—" her whole body tenses and I realize that she's awake and staring at me. She jumps off of me almost as quick as she stripped and strides away while straightening herself. I press myself into the couch as best I can and hope that he can't see me from where he stands.

Oh, God, if I've ever needed you…

I wish I had paid attention to my mom's prayers so I knew how to do it.

"What time is it?"

"One or two? It's early. Take my bags to my room and get me a snack, will you?"

I begin to picture horrible scenarios, most involving me walking home with my skin in a bag.

"Annabeth, how many times do I have to tell you to turn the T.V. off?"

"Sorry," she calls. "I guess I fell asleep."

"Well, if you can't watch responsibly then you can't at all. No more T.V. past eight."

She doesn't respond at first and I think he's going to get pissed at her for it but he just continues to mill around in the kitchen, ignoring the flickering television and the strange boy on his couch. "But my show…"

I don't know what makes her stop talking but she does. She slips into the hallway carrying his bags and returns a few minutes later.

"Did you put the clothes in my hamper?"

"Yeah."

"And the toiletries were returned to their proper place?"

"Each one respectively."

"Well, look at you doing things right for once." I wince. The movement produces a squeak from the couch but she covers the noise by coughing a little too dramatically to be believable.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," she jumps and then soothes her tone. "It was nothing." She looks at me for a moment longer than she should have. "Hey, it's late. I'm sure you're tired. Why don't I fix you a snack and bring it to you in your room?"

"That actually sounds perfect," he smiles as he steps into view, trekking around her to head down the hall. She watches the corridor as she steps with an idle mind. In an instant her head whips around and she gestures to me wildly.

I fall getting off the couch and scamper to the front door, focusing on the hall attentively as I go.

"Your shoes," she hisses and stumbles to the other side of the room. When she hands them to me, her hands press into my back, urging me onward. And then she's ripped away.

I turn in time to watch his vice grip on her shoulders as he throws her, crashing into the arm of the couch and tumbling to the floor, weak and absolutely terrified. I've never seen that face before, not even in my imaginings. Her eyes wide and horror-struck, her mouth parted slightly with a quivering lower lip like she's going to explain. One eye is closed more than the other as if she's already flinching away from his hand.

"What's going on here?" I think I'd be more comfortable if he were yelling. Now, he seems far too rational, far too human. "Sneaking around, hmm? Throwing private parties?" He turns to me, his face an impassive mask. "Son, I think it's time you went home."

He commands respect, radiates power and I feel the knob in my hand before I can think. I'm just about to leave under his watchful, heavy gaze but my eyes move independently to her. And I can't do that. I won't abandon her yet.

He turns away, the door slightly ajar acting as reassurance and when I see his hand form a fist I fall apart. He loosens his tie and all the pieces of me snap back together, reshaping me into a mindless protector. I don't think as I tackle him. He turns under me and I faintly hear his warbled shout under the blood in my ears.

I see red.

My fist pulls back as I straddle him and snaps forward to meet his jaw. And it feels good. It feels liberating, justifying. And when I do it again, I can fly. I feel so good. I'm so high. I am so angry. I punch him again.

And again and again and again, again, again.

This is for Annabeth.

And this one.

This one.

And, hell, this one's for me.

Annabeth grabs my shoulders and pulls me away. I fall to earth; I am aware. She's screaming at me to stop. I'm making it worse. _Percy, dammit, stop!_ Her hands shove me away. He cradles his face. It's livid; he's livid. I loathe him. She is afraid.

The door shuts in my face. I pound my fists; I'm screaming. I can hear them on the other side clearer than ever before. She screams, sobs even, and he yells. Things crash and shatter.

I don't realize I'm crying too until they on the other side of the door fall quiet enough for me to feel my tears. The silence cannot be good.

I wonder how no one's said anything yet.

I hate them; those terrible bystanders. They just let this go on. A girl is being stripped of innocence in such a horrible way and they don't even care.

Maybe they're afraid; those cowards.

Maybe I'm afraid too.

Why haven't I told anyone yet?

I hate myself; I am just like them.

I continue screaming and pounding on the door for a few minutes, until some cops show up to whisk me away for disrupting the peace.

I collapse into their arms, just a boy with a fit of tears and nothing more.

* * *

A day later and she is not in school.

**Fin.**

**And another chapter bites the dust.**

**Here's a bonus part that I had written but took out because it didn't fit with the story much at all:**

"Mom?"

"Back here!"

"I'm going to Annabeth's for a little. I'll be back tonight, 'kay?"

"'Kay, sweetie. Be _safe!_"

"_MOM!_"

"What? _Oh_, not like _that_, Percy. Well… yes, like that, too. But not _just_ like that."

"…I'm just gonna go now."

"See you tonight for dinner?"

"Or later. Like when I get that mental image out of my head."

"…There are some condoms in the second drawer in my bathroom."

"That's mortifying."

"Just don't take them all. I might need a few."

"Oh my Go—MOM! What the hell, Mom; don't even. _Oh my gosh_, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Have fun!"


	6. Chapter 6

**I got all emotional from the reviews for the last chapter. I was shaking and fangirling and making some pretty garbled noises that no one would've identified as **_**human**_**. **

**Mr. Riordan and I need to have words. You don't do that to a girl's OTP. You just don't. They will be avenged! Soon…**

**The hunt is a-foot.**

* * *

**Quote: **_"I'll taste the Devil's tears, drink from his soul, but I'll never give up you."_ –Angus & Julia Stone

**Rating: T**

**Pairing: Percabeth**

**Spoilers: N/A**

* * *

**OPERATION RESTORATION  
**_Burden Bright_

I sit in my classes, teacher's droning and some student's boldly snoring over them—and I do have to applaud their audacity, no matter how rude they are for it—trapped in my own head, reeling for some escape. I had to choke back my bile with every thought racing through my head the first few periods; there was nothing in my stomach to reveal itself since I skipped on dinner and then again on breakfast. My body aches with hunger but I refuse to relieve it; the sight of food nauseates me.

I feel my entire soul scrambling in my body, pressing against me and waiting for my skin to burst into ribbons so that I can be numb again.

I call up her face one more time for good measure, to harden my resolve, before my hand shoots up and I run out of class to heave in a porcelain bowl. I sit on the grimy, sticky floor, not caring about just how disgusting my surroundings truly are—I think my hand is in an old puddle of piss.

I think my heart is in my throat.

And I think I'm wearing two different shoes.

I stare at my feet for a long while, wondering how I didn't notice that I was wearing one black Converse and one Sperry. They aren't even the same color. Good Lord, I fear for my own sanity at this point.

I've got a splitting headache, like she is trying to force her way into my body where she'll be safest, where he can't get her.

How does she suppress her disgust and her pain every day?

Why doesn't she hit back?

I remember the evident hate, the violent storm behind his eyes as I sat on him and wreaked havoc on his face. My knuckles remember the satisfaction of his nose popping at their touch. His eyes must be swollen. I did some damage; fueled by rage, I can't imagine him being at all okay. I wouldn't be surprised if he was too embarrassed to leave the apartment today.

I'm feeling pretty high briefly, like I was drowning but someone caught my hand and was pulling me up but I soon realized that they were only doing so to let me fall again and laugh at my struggle.

I am such an idiot.

She told me to stop; I should've _stopped_.

He can't leave the apartment? He can't leave her.

And then?

I can't even begin to imagine what's kept her home today.

I thought I was fine after allowing myself to be sick, but a coldness presses on me and I turn quickly to lean over the bowl, coughing and sputtering. I spit out some pretty nasty stuff from the back of my throat, a thread of spit snapping back at my lips. My throat burns and my nose is running.

I realize that I'm crying.

Someone comes in to take a piss and leaves with the satisfying trill of his fly. I wonder how much time passes. I must look like a child when I step out of the stall.

Snot bubbling from my nose, my eyes rimmed red, toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoes. When I look at my hand, it's tainted a nasty yellow and I almost puke again. Boys at my school have no class at all.

I scrub my hands until they're raw, rinse my face off until my eyes sting and my nostrils burn. I press my palms to the counter top.

I look like I'm high. My eyes are bloodshot; my nose is pink and my skin is blotchy. Very obviously been crying; there's no way to hide it.

And if people ask, then I'll tell them the truth. I'll tell them why.

What will he do to her when he finds out that she told?

God, what is he doing to her now?

I can't tell anyone. I've got to protect her. But I can't leave her with him. Everything in me is screaming that what he does now—what he will _continue_ to do—is worse for her than what will happen if they were discovered and separated. If he was thrown in prison. If she was transferred back into foster care.

I slam my hand on the counter and listen to the satisfying, sonorous reaction I get in the empty room. I don't know what to do. Now more than ever I'm fighting to keep my mouth shut because the desire to tell has become prominent and powerful.

Hope is the only thing stronger than fear; I'm afraid of what will happen to her yet hopeful that she'll be free and happy.

But I'm a coward. I won't tell on her.

Not yet; not today.

* * *

I remember staring in her bedroom window from the fire escape, willing her to throw open her window and spit profanity at me for being such an ignoramus. In my mind, I pictured her escaping with just a black eye or maybe a cut along her hairline. Something that I've seen before; something she can hide; something that will heal.

I stayed up until the sun started crawling across the sky, retching bloody reds, bruising the night and leaving yellow welts. She never turned off her lamp.

Mom found me out on the rusty stairway down on my knees, slumped forward with my head on the safety bar. That would've been a nasty fall, she told me as she worried at the pink dent in my skin from my support beam.

When I make it to the tree where Thalia and Nico are sprawled under, I sink down and lean into the rough bark.

"You look like hell," Thalia tells me with a mouthful of glistening red apple. A shred of skin is stuck between her teeth. I can't help but see the blood that pestered Mr. M. Phisher's lips.

"I feel like hell."

"Are you familiar with the feel of hell?" Nico snickered into his green apple and tossed me mine. His usual monochromatic color scheme is horribly maimed by the bright pink bracelet on his wrist, reading 'Save the tatas'.

"I'm starting to make its acquaintance."

"Something you wanna tell us?" Thalia straightens her shoulders and leans forward, closer to Nico who is lying out between us with his head on a root. Nico nudges her with his elbow and tells her to back off. He's got personal space issues that are easy to forget. Thalia leans until her chin is hovering over him, not taking her eyes from me.

"Not that I can think of."

Would it be wrong if I told them the truth? I like to think so. Thalia can be a bit eccentric; she's too much like me for our own good.

Her favorite form of torture is not tattling on some grown man who beats children; it would be slow and agonizing. As tempting as that sounds, I can't help but feel like whatever's going on with Annabeth would be increased tenfold on the horrific scale.

"Hey, Nico," I pick at the grass with one hand and nibble my apple with the other. "Was Annabeth in class today?"

His brows furrow and he sits up on his elbows. "Huh. No; she wasn't. She doesn't come as much as I'd have expected. You think she's skipping?"

I shake my head and roll up onto my feet, dropping my haunches on my heels. My head is spinning and my visions getting kind of hazy. A panic attack? I've never had one but I imagine they'd feel like this.

Nico guffaws loudly and throws himself to his knees, examining me. "Dude! Is that a _hickey_ I see?"

My hand subconsciously goes to my neck and I feel her mouth pressed to me again. I feel her cool fingertips trailing my skin. Her body pressed against mine. Oh God, Annabeth.

"Get some, Percy!" Thalia laughs obnoxiously, as she is accustomed to do. Only now, it grates at my skin and pricks my temper. She punches my shoulder and nudges Nico. "What about you, kid? I want nieces and nephews in abundance. Get to it."

He snickers.

The back of my neck heats up and I can feel the blush rise to the tips of my ears. Luckily, the bell signals the end of lunch before I can make an equally crass comment about her habits. They laugh as they gather up their bags and binders and tap me with the toe of their shoes as they head off.

I mutter things even incomprehensible to me under my breath as I sling my backpack over my shoulder. My feet begin to carry me towards the building that looms over me and as I approach the shadow it casts I drag to a slow halt.

What am I doing?

Why am I here when she's not? Here pointlessly, unable to focus on anything but her? Why am I not there for her when she needs me most?

I refuse to be that big of a coward, backing out at the first sign of our situation causing me some trouble. I could take him easily. I've spent my childhood fighting anybody who looked at me funny. Besides, I asked for this. I asked her to let me in.

I catch the eyes of the school officer and he gives a slight nod as he passes, telling me to hurry up and get to class. I weakly smile—I'm a deceitful child; if I get caught, the hardest part will be explaining everything to my mother—and head off around to the back parking lot where my car is parked.

It's warmed by the sun and burns me when my arm brushes the seat belt buckle.

Nerves dance across my skin but I swallow them down as I peel off campus.

* * *

I spend the next half hour rounding corners in our apartment building, too afraid to go home to where my mother who will surely send me back to school might lurk, yet mortified at just the idea of what would happen if I went to her apartment. I sit at the corner of our intersecting halls with my knees pulled up close. My chest is tight.

I pull out my homework and think about starting it then quickly shove it back in my backpack. It seems almost discourteous and selfish to work in a mind-numbing experience. She doesn't have the luxury, so I'll refuse it.

I drum my fingers on my leg, frustrated with myself. I'm indecisive because the options I have are just too difficult. There's no black and white; the lines are smudged and grey.

I should tell. It's not fair to her and it's not right that I keep it secret. But when actually faced with the choice, it's impossible.

If I tell, I betray her trust. I can't lose that.

It kills me that she lives in fear.

It kills me that I'm so useless.

I'm so absorbed in my despair that the figure tromping down the hall isn't noticed by me until he stops at my feet in fastidious shoes and pressed pants. My eyes trail up his body until I find his swelled face.

He clears his throat and sticks his hands in his pockets. I clutch my binder.

"Do you, ah," he glances back down his hall through pinched eyes and then again to me, "do you have a minute?"

"For you?" I can't help the bitter laugh that bubbles out. If he didn't know how aware I am before, then he must certainly now. "No." I decide that homework isn't so bad; I'll do it if it gets him to go away.

I feel my fists aching to grind against his face again.

"Do you live around here?"

School should be getting out in a few minutes. I don't answer him.

"Shouldn't you be in school?"

"Shouldn't Annabeth?"

He quirks his mouth ruefully and clicks his heels together once, twice. "I'm afraid she's a bit… indisposed at the moment." His eyes are dark with devilish mirth that makes my insides flop and press against my skin. My heart grinds my esophagus.

"Why is that?" I ask quietly. I can hardly breathe.

"Listen, son," he smiles in a bizarre, fatherly manner. "Maybe we got off on the wrong foot last night. It had been a long day. I don't normally react like that but, well, I see a young man sneaking around my apartment despite my protests against it and… Things can sometimes get out of hand; understand?"

Is he seriously going to lie to me?

I hesitate. I know better but my father's temperament and stubbornness get the better of me. "Mmmm, sorry. I'm a little slow on the pickup."

I feel a threat on his life forming at the tip of my tongue as he glances over his shoulders. Before I even know what's happened, he grabs the hair at the top of my head and presses me into the wall, leaning in close. The mirth is replaced by a cruelty I recognize from last night. I am unimpressed by his desperate attempt at dominance and feel my rage numbing me to the yank of hair from my head. I try to keep my face passive but know that my own anger is too dominant.

"Listen, _kid_," his aftershave is a mixture of business and malice. "I don't have time to play games. What you saw last night? _Didn't_ _happen_." We watch each other carefully. I gaze unflinchingly, and there it is. The fear that registers like a blip, appearing and then it's gone without a trace. He seems to realize where he is because he releases his hold on me and straightens up again. "We can call it our little man secret. We have to keep our girls in line, don't we?

"If you say anything about it, well who knows what will happen to sweet little Annabeth," he adds noncommittally. "Things can get pretty… messy."

I feel the defeat sinking in. I was right; he wouldn't let her get away clean if things turned on him for the worse. How could I risk it?

As he starts back up the hall, I call to him. He turns halfway with an amused grin, very satisfied by my lack of response.

"Where is she?" My throat is dry and my voice shows it. He knows how scared I am, knows that he's got me. He's won. "What have you done with her?"

"Nothing that a few days of rest and some acetone won't fix," he flashes a full and pink-tinted smile, blood stained on his teeth, as he continues on.

I celebrate weakly that he wouldn't be seeing out of his left eye for a while and he'd be drinking his own blood until he pissed it.

I should tell.

* * *

The numbers filter across the screen, my thumb hovering hungrily over the green 'CALL' button.

It twitches from the weakness that is ripping through all of my muscles. I feel dead.

_9-1-1_

I see her face.

I press the phone to my ear. It's ringing adamantly but sounds so far off. So far away.

_What is my emergency? What is it?_

My tongue pokes out and I suck in a shaky breath.

"I…" I can't breathe. I can't think. I feel nothing. I am nothing.

"Sir?"

Annabeth screams in my ear, cries, yells at me. And then she is strong. She's walking down the hallway with her head high, an upturned nose. She tells me she doesn't need my charity. If she wants my help, she'll ask for it. She presses her nose, her smile, into my back when she thinks I've fallen asleep and breathes deeply. Her hand under my shirt. Her lips to my throat. Her eyes to mine. A fire escape and an insurmountable distance.

"I need to, uh…"

His wicked gleam. His cruel hands. His explosive temper. Raging across her body, raging across her mind, raging across her emotions. Raging about and destroying. He's won. He's won.

_Hehaswon._

"I'm sorry, wrong number."

I hang up.

* * *

She doesn't come back to school until Friday.

Seeing her nudging through the crowd in my direction, the school day half over and us not speaking for a week, I have the overwhelming urge to forget our unspoken rule of feigned unfamiliarity in public. I want to rush at her, gather her in my arms. I want to interrogate, I want to comfort, I want to kiss, I want to make her laugh. But I know better.

And her appearance repulses me. Because I know the cause. Because I had almost done something to change it but I'm too much of a coward.

Her hair is limp on her head, no longer volumous, silky princess curls she regularly pulled from her eyes irritably. Blue pouches hug red-rimmed eyes mischievously, suggestively. Her pink lips are tinged purple, grotesquely accenting her ghoulish skin. White and mapped with varicose veins. I can see it, her death, like a light that's finally snuffed out behind her imposing eyes.

She throws me for a loop. It doesn't look possible, her knees weak and knocking, but she hurls forward, curling her arms around my neck with such force that I almost topple over. And if I did, I'd take out my cousins and their disbelieving eyes. I don't even question it as my arms press her closer, pull her in at her neck. She feels so small.

I mutter into her ear all the apologies I had screamed at my ceiling every night while I cried for her—_I'm such an idiot, I'm so sorry, oh God, forgive me, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry—_and she nods, nuzzling me and pressing her fingers into the small of my back, under my shirt again. The skin of her hands is rough.

Calluses are normal, but this feeling is not the same as that of the thick, protective coating of skin. It itches, rubs me wrong.

I pull her hand from my back, holding her wrist in my palm, slow and gentle so as not to disturb her. She allows it, still burying her face in the crook of my neck. She tenses and is almost whimpering on my throat. Her palms are torn, blotches of dark pink flesh flashing like pockets of blood in stark contrast with the thin skin. Dead flakes curl along the lips of the marks.

I watch her stare, unseeing, at the mangled palms. I can see the memories playing through her mind and ravishing her sanity, stroking, teasing and slowly destroying.

"What happened?" It is hardly a whisper in her ear as she curls back into me, pressing every inch together. My arms find her waist, thinner than usual. She's muttering incoherently and fisting my shirt; I don't think I'll ever find out what must be haunting her.

I look helplessly at Thalia and Nico, only just remembering them. Nico's face is stuffed in his locker as he trades the same two notebooks, in and out, back and forth. He shuffles awkwardly on his feet. Thalia, though. Thalia's eyes are hard; I think she might know now.

I tell her hoarsely that we'll talk later, we need to talk later.

I can hardly breathe when Annabeth breaks out sobbing, her whole form trembling. She buries her nails in my skin, not enough to make me bleed, and rubs her cheeks on the fabric of my tee. Then her palms slide up my ribs and pulse on my chest. She's too weak to force me away and my heart breaks that she even wants to try. She gasps into the hollow of my throat, composes herself, and shoves me away.

She sneers at me, disgusted by my betrayal.

"Annabeth, she should—_someone_ should—" I wring my hands, severely missing her lips on my collar bone, her fingers twisting against my skin.

"You promised," she hisses.

I should agree or say something to calm her. I don't know how. "You didn't give me much of a choice."

She recoils, no longer even hovering closely. Her feet carry her farther back into the crowd of kids with an unwavering gaze. I reach to catch her arm. "I'll see you tonight."

It's a question really.

She hesitates and I know she's doing that thing I hate. She's thinking; probably excessively, as well. I don't know what to expect. I just hold my hope tight in my chest.

She bites her lips, eyes briefly softening, and folds her palms with a wince. "You're my friend, stupid."

I can't contain that small blooming smile as I watch her turn on her heel and scamper off to the library where she eats lunch.

_Any more stupid questions?_

**Fin.**

**A/N: Sorry this took so impossibly long to get out. It's been a hell of a week for me.**

**Next chapter touches (most likely) on a more serious subject of suicide. Not plot essential, so if that's hard for you to read due to personal experiences, consider this your forewarning. It won't be the whole chapter, just a portion that you might want to skip.**

**And it seems important that I say, so as not to scare you, that Annabeth does not kill herself.**


	7. Chapter 7

**This story is rapidly drawing to a close. It went by exceptionally faster than I thought (read: hoped) it would. Following the epilogue—because I refuse to leave it off where it's going to end—I'm going to be posting a "deleted segments/ideas/alternate ending(s)" chapter. Thing.**

**It took so long to post this—and I hadn't realized exactly how long it's been—because I've been cramming for midterms that I've so far passed with flying colors. I'm extremely sorry for the wait but I couldn't really let this chapter be total crap.**

* * *

**Quote: **_"A million words would not bring you back, I know because I've tried; neither would a million tears, I know because I've cried."_ -Unknown

**Rating: T**

**Pairing: Percabeth**

**Spoilers: N/A**

* * *

**OPERATION RESTORATION  
**_Burden Bright_

It's kind of the worst feeling in the world when she doesn't come to the fire escape—_our _sanctuary—that night.

I had rocked through the halls on unsteady feet, attempting a trapeze act across the line of sanity from one class to the next. On the brink. So close to falling.

In math, two and two made fish. And if the square root of four is pi when multiplied by book then the mass of the sun is purple.

I curl my arms around my bare knees, giving up on pulling my shorts down—or up?—and bury my face. I'm not going to move, not until I see her face. Not until I see that she's okay. The back of my mind is humming, because it foolishly believes that he won't touch her for a while. Not until the satisfaction of the past week wears off.

My fingertips press my skin until I'm numbed by the blood my nails draw. Every other fiber is realizing how this goes.

There is no break from hell. You can't tap the devil on his shoulder and ask for five off; he'll sneer in your face, tear you to pieces, reassemble you until you can function just to do it again.

I'm so frustrated, so bitter and enraged, I need some release. I don't know what to attack other than myself.

And I would deserve it because I'm an idiot, I'm a coward, and I'm alone. It's entirely my fault.

I have to bite my tongue to keep from yelling curses at God. How can He sit so stoically, so _freaking perfect_ while she's…

I stomp my foot like a child but it does nothing. I want liberation, thirst for it, beg. I ache for a peace I haven't known in so long. I slam the side of my fist into the cement siding of my apartment but it does nothing other than crack something in my hand. I don't feel it.

I want to break something. I want to feel it crumble, shatter, splinter. I don't care how, don't care where the pieces lie when I'm done, don't even care what it is. I want to tear and destroy. I want control back. I want something at my mercy. I want my _life_ back.

I want to scream and at the same time I feel I should curl up in a corner and just sob. I feel I should die where I stand.

I'm in my room because it's so much more fragile, penetrable, feeble. After all, _she_ could get in. She could invade and destroy _everything_.

I pull on my hair and hold back a shout. I shouldn't be blaming her.

I've got to move. Ants in my shirt. Fire in my chest, burning me.

I blink.

Long blade in my hand.

_Blink_.

Pressed to my wrist.

_Blink._

I think I'm going to be sick.

_Blink._

The mirror splinters, spider webs mapping it, shards erupting around me.

I collapse on my bed, a hysterical, sticky and wet, putrid-smelling coward.

* * *

"Percy," she folds her body into mine like a puzzle piece, the two of us sprawled out under the tree with an apple clenched in my teeth. Bright green and sour; not my normal. We're beyond the point of caring what people think and so we wrap around each other. Her voice is a whimper. When she moves her hair from her face, I see the marks on her hand. _That's my fault._

"Hmmm," I hum into her hair when I pull the apple from my mouth. Thalia and Nico tear grass from the roots and throw them at each other. I wonder when it'll get violent, when they'll each have a fit and not speak for a week.

I want to throw grass and have a fit.

I want to act like I'm five.

I want to be five again.

She presses her mouth to my ear and whispers mute words:

"I think I'd like to kill myself."

I choke.

* * *

I come home to mom in my room clutching a dust pan and broom. Her body shakes violently.

I stop to take in my surroundings and gather myself. My backpack slips from my shoulder and brushes the floor, my hand gripping the strap irrevocably. The bathroom mirror is destroyed, totaled, dead. Completely ruined. Peppering the floor like broken eggshells are long, narrow shards and miniscule chips. Reflective fangs drip from the frame above my sink.

I step towards mom, maybe to explain or maybe to help, and glass crunches under my feet.

When I grab her shoulder, I cry out; a ripple of sharp and unforgivable pain permeates from my fist to my elbow.

Immediately the broom clatters to the floor and she whirls. Her violent and sudden movements become gentle and timid as she fingers my right hand, making me wince and whimper.

"Oh, Percy," she murmurs, softly pressing her lips to my bruised knuckles. "What have you done?"

She quickly guides me to the front door, calling out to Paul who's chilling on the couch, half-dead to the world, and telling him to go clean up the mess I made. I briefly feel bad about all the trouble I'm causing but it washes away when I instinctively catch the door and irritate the inevitable break corrupting my hand. Mom scolds me some and ushers me into the car.

When I leave, I've got an ugly cast that I couldn't rightly protest against because mother knows best and I don't want my hand to heal poorly.

Back at home I see all of the pieces broken and clustering in the bathroom trash. Scattered and I was helpless to pick them up, to make it right; I need someone else to do it for me. I muss my hair and sit on the newly cleaned bathroom floor, cradling my hand.

I think back to what Annabeth boldly wished for, what she whispered to me the first time she ever hung out with me and my cousins outside of school. Thalia and Nico had decided that they could tolerate her at least—she gave me a hickey so she must be cool (_gah! Nico, shut up!_)—and Thalia later texted me and told me to invite her to a party that a bunch of seniors were throwing. _Because senior parties are a huge deal to Annabeth_. I happily and sarcastically informed her of this with a roll of my eyes, but Thalia insisted.

Dead.

I hate that I can understand her wishes.

But one thing I cannot hate about myself is that I still want her alive.

It must mean that somehow I've still got hope.

* * *

"Will you kiss me?"

"I thought that was just for one day?"

I can't help but quirk my eyebrow with a cockiness that has never been my own. I can't tell where it comes from but it doesn't bother me one bit because it has Annabeth smiling. And when Annabeth smiles, everything's worth it. Everything makes sense.

"Things change," she shrugs, but I see the flicker of a memory starting to filter into mind. She blinks it away quickly and grabs me by the collar. "You do things to me."

I laugh as her mouth covers mine. Her hands grab my face and pull me closer. I lose reality when her lips start dusting feather-light kisses down my neck, when her open mouth presses to the hollow of my throat.

Her fingers play across my heated skin, tip-toeing up and down my arm, tracing over my pulse point, swirling under my shirt along the small of my back. She dips her pinkie shallowly into the mouth of my jeans, not without a trace of teasing. She dips her tongue past my lips, not without a breathy sigh.

When she pulls away from me to gather neighboring gasps, she presses her cheek to mine and nuzzles for a moment. Neither of us can breathe. Then she speaks, hoarse and quiet: "Help me forget."

I gather her in my arms, unsure of myself because I've never done this type of thing before. I noticed girls—because girls look nice and they smell nice and some of them even _are_ nice—and had only somewhat pursued a mild, stereotypically-childish relationship with a fiery red head that moved away, telling everyone that she wanted to become a nun. Because that makes perfect sense. I imagine her leisurely, carnal monster of a father didn't quite approve that detail when drawing out the blueprint that is to be her life.

The whole nun thing had actually hurt my pride more than I'd ever care to admit.

With Annabeth, I can't run for the hills telling the town that I'll be joining a brotherhood. Somehow, being a man of the cloth seems like a hazy figment of my own personal hell; shaved head and long trailing dresses that somewhat resemble potato sacks and a house full of other guys who had sworn off women and hair and style.

Really, though, I can't run because I don't want to. I don't want to leave her alone and I don't want to hurt her ever, after everything she's been through. And, possibly, it goes beyond that. Some part of me is chanting a mantra of _lovelovelovelove_ that I'm too afraid to acknowledge. I need her. To see her edgy eyes egging me on and then soothing me. To play with her long princess curls, wrap them around my fingers and coil them up tightly. To banter with and submit to and share secrets, some good and others not. To curl around when life gets too hard.

With Annabeth, we are all that matters.

I lay her across the top of my sheets, never pulling my mouth from hers, and spread out beside her with my chest pressed to her side. I hover over her and guide my arm to cradle her head, my other hand playing at her exposed hip.

When she pulls at me I struggle to remember myself and when I do, I find I am pressed firmly between her legs. She has two fingers hooked in my belt loops. My head is light and dancing a horrible rendition of the Tarantella. I have to stop. I have to stop _us._ I think that if it were any other night for any other reason, things would be different for me. She knots her fingers in my restless crown and presses her lips to that one place just behind my ear.

"Please, Percy," she murmurs through lips on skin. "I need you."

Her words assault my senses, dim my resistance if only slightly. I think of how hard she's fought to keep us platonic. I can't help but wonder which Annabeth is a mask of protection.

I think of what this will mean for the dynamics of our relationship.

I think of her reasons.

I think of how this would be my first time.

And, most importantly, I think of how I don't want it.

If we were to ever cross this line, I want to have made a proper woman out of her first. I want a ring and a clean white fence and a little black pup that barks at the neighbors. I want to do this in a way that won't break my mother's heart. And I want her to know I love her. I want her freedom and mine and real, honest love that doesn't stem from two people who are leaning too heavily on one another.

But I also think of how much she just needs to feel loved and maybe giving her all that I am is just barely enough.

I have to push aside what I want because she wants something different, something that could turn to poison if poorly handled.

I tremble the entire time, acutely aware of everything. My mind is buzzing. I can't stop thinking.

I am white hot and humming with energy I've never known before.

Words fall from my mouth that I didn't think I'd ever have the courage to say and they ignite her.

We tumble over the edge.

After she has fallen asleep, I am frozen. Body stiff with the exception of my arm, moving of its own accord to stroke her hair that is splayed across my chest. She breathes heavily and tightens her hold on me. I am vacant. When I feel absolutely numb, I cry until I succumb to my exhaustion.

How did we get here?

* * *

My mother finds us still wrapped around each other in the morning and I watch blankly, unfeeling as she leaves my room while pushing down her tears.

She locks herself in her room and prays for hours.

* * *

"Is it true?"

For a horrible moment, I think that she knows what we did. Knows that we can't take it back but knows that I want to. Then I remind myself of Luke and of her freshmen year. I'm safe, even if she does know.

She doesn't.

"Does he," she pauses to meet my eyes. Nico rocks from side to side, holding the toes of his high-tops. "Does he _hit_ her?"

I swallow slowly. "He definitely does more than just hit her."

I know I promised Annabeth that I wouldn't tell, but I seem to be changing my mind about a lot of things.

Thalia lets out a vicious cry, something I've never heard before. Something that sounds _animal_ more than it does human. "Percy! Why haven't you said anything? What the hell is wrong with you?"

Nico stops rocking but fidgets uncomfortably. His own dad had a strange means of discipline, like locking his children into small spaces that has given Nico his right to his personal space issues. After his dad remarried, something soothed his rotten soul and now he's merrily absent from their home ninety-eight percent of the time. Nico likes it that way. "Has he, um… you know?"

My eyebrow shoots up quizzically. The tone of his voice, uncomfortable and tight, leads me on though. "He doesn't… _touch_ her, if that's what you mean."

His shoulders slump a little with the puff of air he drops.

"Then what can he do more than hit her? Starve her?"

I shrug noncommittally. "Why not?" I feel myself quickly getting angry. "And while he's at it, why not carve a tramp stamp in her back. Because she's a _slut_." I spit his excuses from my head, from my mouth, and Thalia's fists hang in the air searching for something to demolish.

"Let's kill him."

I shake my head. Then we'd have a body to deal with and jail and I was really looking forward to starting this summer break right, with Annabeth far away from him. School's out now, drama should end. But real life won't pause for me.

"_Fine_." She whips out her cell phone and presses it into my quivering palms. "Call 9-1-1 then. Or else I will. And then I'll kill you, too."

* * *

I stand by helplessly with a heavy hand on my shoulder that's squeezing too hard to really be reassuring. I just see his strong grip on her before he slams her to the ground in preparation of a beating that will never come. It plays over and over again in my mind.

That horrified expression, her mind already shutting down, her consciousness already retreating to the dark recesses of her psyche where he can't touch her. Half-lidded eyes, half-opened mouth, hair askew.

Badges glint and then those cruel, grotesquely paternal eyes find mine. We watch each other warily and I think that maybe he will go quietly; he is completely submissive.

But only for a moment. The struggle is an interlude between the moments of peace. He throws his shoulder, yanking his wrist free, and follows it with the other. His teeth bare and from the corners of his throat he emits a withheld snarl that grates my skin. His eyes flash and then are consumed by murky black. Both feet manage quick strides toward me with so much purpose; I hate that I nearly shrink back.

Had Thalia not been there to quickly step between us and wield the element of surprise, I might've empathized with Annabeth freezing when targeted by him. I wonder what he would do if he could get to me with free hands.

It's only a moment that he lashes out before he is quickly restrained but it feels like an eternity. Just enough time to finish me off.

Thalia smacks my backside and tells me that I did the right thing.

The second person to slip from the haunted housing is her and I try to find her eyes. She can't—won't—even look at me, in my general direction. A severe woman with a sleek bun and tight pencil skirt allows her hands to lightly dance across Annabeth's shoulders, like she's not sure what's okay. I know what isn't. The physical contact isn't.

I gaspingly ask her to wait. Can we just have a minute alone? _Please?_

But Annabeth won't budge. She just watches me limply from the side of the tight-lipped social security worker, like she doesn't even recognize me anymore. Like I'm nothing to her. I think I'm going to cry.

I've never cried for anyone, even myself, so much in my entire life but it has stopped being so alien to me.

"Annabeth," I say. My voice tunes in and out, only audible on occasion. "Please."

I step up to her until we're only inches away and I'm encouraged by her holding her ground, tilting her head up so her eyes meet mine. But there is no trace of emotion. I fear that I've lost her for good. I won't even survive in her cherished memories; I'm a washed out image of someone she used to know.

I try to speak quietly but so much is running through my veins that I don't think I succeed. "Do you remember," I hesitate if just so that I can catch my breath. It's nearly impossible. "Do you remember that night?"

She must know what I'm talking about. It must've meant _something_ to her.

"Do you remember when we," I catch myself and redirect. "Do you remember what I told you?" She blinks.

"…Please give me something, Annabeth."

And then, a slow, very cautious nod.

"Then you must know… you've _got_ to know why." She blinks her gaze from me and stares at our shoes. I duck my head because I need to look her in the eyes. I'll know what's going on behind her guarded demeanor if she would just look at me. "I—" _I love you._ "I couldn't just stand by anymore. Seeing what he does—_did_ to you… I meant what I said."

And then she meets my eyes and I think she's trying but there is no suppressing the anger, the hurt, the betrayal.

"I warned you about that," she hisses. She takes a step away and acknowledges the woman in grey quickly then looks back to me. The lady starts off down the hall with Annabeth following indolently. She looks over at me again. "_How could you_?"

A disgusted shake of the head whisks her away.

I consider getting angry. I consider screaming and re-breaking my fist. I consider dropping to the ground and sobbing.

But in the end all there is now is the pain and so I'll cherish it and hold it close to my heart silently and with some dignity. It's all I've got left of her.

It's all she's ever really given me.

**Fin.**

**Shorter than usual but yeah. One or two chapters left I believe. Who knows; I might find something else I want to cover. But after that is the epilogue.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Explanation time (again): Christmas and New Years came around. And I've been doing a lot of volunteer work. But really, my new laptop that I was gifted with didn't have Microsoft Office (AKA: a place to type).**

**It gave me a hell of a time but I've finally finished installing. I'm so sorry for the wait. And no, I didn't edit because I couldn't stand to wait any longer. Sorry for that, too.**

* * *

**Quote: **_"People think it is holding on that makes you stronger, but sometimes it's letting go."_ -Unknown

**Rating: T**

**Pairing: Percabeth**

**Spoilers: N/A**

* * *

**OPERATION RESTORATION  
**_Burden Bright_

We met at the beginning of the school year.

She sat next to me in Chemistry all on her own and decided right then, all on her own, that she hated me.

Initially, I had no concern for her. Couldn't even bring myself to be remotely interested. She just gave off that bi—_ahem_, sorry—_witch_-vibe, you know? Generally the type of girl that I would avoid.

I don't really know how it happened. I just saw the bruises and that was it. I got stuck with her. I got stuck with all of the _shi—_

_Look, kid, if you'd like a minute—_

Sorry. Sorry, no; I'm okay.

Um, I guess… I guess it really starts with when I was going to invite her out because she isn't—wasn't?—really popular. Or tolerable. Or likable for anyone. Like I said, she's not really approachable. But she's incredibly smart. Just, a complete brainiac in every subject and I'm… not. So I figured that if I hung out with her and helped her make some friends or something then she would help a guy out. Like, maybe she'd turn a blind eye if I peeked off her test or something. Or maybe we could _exchange_ answers on our homework.

Stop looking at me like that, Thals… Okay, it wasn't completely like that. She's pretty; I'm a guy. Sue me.

_Can we stay on topic, please?_

Oh. Right, well… couple days later—maybe a few weeks—I went out on my fire escape to, for lack of a better word, to pout. I guess I had gotten in a fight with my mom? I can't even remember. It seems so _stupid_ now.

I can't believe all the little things I let myself get hung up on.

But she was just sitting there. Not really pouting like me, though I guess she had more reason to. I keep seeing her face: bright red from crying and so scared. Of _me_. And angry. She's an angry sort of girl. I think she was mad that I caught her being a real, functioning person with real, functioning emotions. It was weird for me to see her showing any feelings that weren't a cross between livid, pissed, and annoyed.

She made me swear not to tell. I don't know why I agreed. I should've told someone right away, I should've called the cops, or _something_ instead of just letting it slide. But I promised because she wanted me to.

Who am I to deny her anything after finding out something as heavy as _that_?

_Did you ever see Mr. Phisher harm Annabeth?_

Well, no. Once. Almost. Kinda.

I mean, he was going to hit her and it would've been my fault. Because I fell asleep on her couch with her—please stop that; I hate when you look so superior, Thalia—and he came home from his trip. He caught us and I don't know what came over me. He just threw her across the room and I saw red.

…I don't think I've ever lived a moment of my life where I've felt that good. And then a day later, I've never felt lower.

She never told me what happened when she kicked me out. I just know that she was gone for a week.

It's funny. We had this assembly on signs to look for and what to do when a peer is being abused at home. And about how if you're being abused, you should speak up. Those things you're supposed to look for, though—they aren't there unless you want them to be, you know? She seemed so _normal_ and I never would've suspected anything.

Like, she wore modest clothes and I just assumed that was her thing. And she kept to herself. She didn't like people—I thought she just had a superiority complex. Lots of pride. She never really flinched so much out of the ordinary when someone moved too suddenly.

Did you catch anything odd about her Thalia?

_I didn't have a class with her._

Whatever. Even still, our cousin, Nico—uh, Nico di Angelo; he's Italian on his mother's side, I think. Two years younger than us? Maybe. He's kinda short, skinny, broods a lot. Black hair? Yeah, him—he was in a class with her and he didn't think anything was wrong but her personality.

As soon as I knew, it was so obvious that it was overwhelming how obtuse everyone seemed. I just wanted to shake the kids that laughed about her behind her back and just scream: "How can you not see this? Why won't you do anything? How can you be so stupid?"

_Can you tell us anything specific? _

Like…?

Oh, you mean, like physical evidence or something? It's all right there. But she probably won't show you.

And before you say anything, I don't think she should have to. It hardly matters anyway. Because…

Some stuff doesn't leave those kinds of scars. He tried to drown her once in a bathtub. You can't see that, though. It just happened and there's no way to know.

Life does that sometimes; so much going on behind the scenes that nobody else can see.

But some of the stuff he did…

On the small of her back, right on the other side of her navel, she's got scars. A word. She would never show me so I don't know what it says but he did that after he caught her writing me an E-mail. I don't know what he thought or what it said—she never got a chance to send it—but it set him off.

Some days, he wouldn't let her out of her room. Usually, I'd share my dinner with her or sneak a cereal bar to her. Very faintly, you can see her ribs. And her collar bone is really… defined? Pronounced? I don't know what word is appropriate for that.

When she was eleven—I think she said eleven—he lit her hair on fire. Which seems sort of psychotic. And devilish. And just very wrong and not at all fair to her because she doesn't deserve that sort of hell. She doesn't deserve any hell! It's him who deserves that damnation—

_Mr. Jackson. Please sit down._

Sorry.

…

No. Actually, I'm not sorry. It's the truth.

I don't know if Hell exists, but my mom thinks so and she'd tell me not to, but I wish that's where he ends up…

People like Annabeth don't deserve what they've gotten out of life.

* * *

Mom sits beside me running the pad of her thumb across my nails, a subconscious habit that she's executed for years, successfully soothing me when I fuss. But I'm not fussing right now. I don't feel angry or bitter. Just empty. I feel all sorts of numb and broken and half-alive.

She musses my hair and drops her head on my shoulder with a heavy sigh. I feel the weariness, the heartbreak, the compassion dripping off of my mother and running over my skin, sinking in through my pores and infecting me.

My chest aches. Right in the middle. The kind of burn you get from running too long or sobbing excessively. I can't tell where it has come from, I just know it's there and it doesn't plan on leaving anytime soon.

Mom breathes heavily again and shakes her head. "That poor, poor girl…"

Yes, mom. Poor girl.

"Oh, and you, Percy, carrying so much on your own!" She drops my hand and settles on pacing irritably, her face drooping under her anxiety and her eyes soft, wringing her hands. I don't know if she means to, but I feel her disappointment in me like an albatross hung around my neck. Every so often, she'll shoot me a withering glare that dies out in only a moment. It is enough. The gentle nature of my mother, I realize, can be snuffed out.

She's only human and that thought itself is so disheartening that I feel like collapsing in on myself.

Another bit of my foundation wilting under the domineering power of age and time. I don't know how much more I can take in this moment. Spare me, God. Please. Just a few years to reboot. That's all I ask, really.

"Mom," I murmur and finger the button on my jeans perfunctorily. I sink my teeth, fuzzy and in need of a serious scrubbing, into my bottom lip. I've never openly questioned mom's religion before but I can't stop myself. I think she'll have answers that maybe I'll need to hear. "How… how can God let stuff like this happen?"

Her whole frame goes rigid for just a fraction of a second and then she is by my side. "Oh, sweetheart," she brushes my hair again. "Oh, I used to ask that all of the time. _All of the time_. After my parents died"—plane crash—"I was just so angry with _their_ God. And then I moved to New York; oh, honey, you know how it goes."

I do. Careless uncle, a dead beat like my step-father, who decided it best that he catch cancer and die on her, leaving her with nothing. Which is cool and all—why not? She's just a kid. It's character building—but she fell through the cracks. Through those cracks and right into my father's lap.

"Did you ever find an answer to your question?"

"Not at first. It takes patience, perspective, and a little rage. Healthy doses only." She cracks a grin and runs her palm down my cheek. The corners of her eyes tuck in; it's flattering on her face. Like fine wine, my mom only gets better with time. "But, honey, if none of that had happened, I wouldn't have met your father."

"So?"

"So, I wouldn't have had you," she says simply and _hmphs_ laughingly. "I know it's hard to see right now, but God's got a bigger picture he's painting. With time, you'll start to take steps back and it all falls into place. It could take weeks or years or a whole lifetime. But if God brought you to it, I think He can bring you through it. And it'll only make you better for it."

"Yeah, but…"

"I know," she nods, though I don't think she does know. I don't even know what I was going to say. "Moments like these, they're the game changers. Like basketball." Life is not basketball. "Everyone's rooting for you in the stands. That cute girl you know is there with her friends. You're facing off against your bitter rivals. You've got the ball, bottom of the ninth—"

"That's baseball."

"—and you don't have a clear shot. So, you pass off the ball to the guy who's open, even if you don't want to. Because that should've been _your_ moment. Right then, it seems like the biggest thing in the world." Yes. It does. "But then, when you're all out for ice cream after, it doesn't matter how it happened. It only matters that you won. And that your mother is paying for your dessert." That is pretty nice considering how empty my walk is of jingling change.

I give a noncommittal shrug.

Mom sighs and kisses my forehead. Her fingers flit around my hairline and then she's clasping and unclasping her hands in her lap. "What I'm saying is that right now, the path your life is taking looks the bleakest. It's the end of the world. But then, life goes on. And things get better. Something great is going to come of this.

"Maybe this wasn't for you at all. Maybe God used you to _save_ her. Isn't that worth anything?"

"Yeah, but mom, he shouldn't have hit her _at all_!"

"No," she concedes and watches me from the corner of her eye. "No, he shouldn't have. But that isn't God's doing. Man has free will. You've heard that story about Einstein, right?"

And now we're off topic. But no, I haven't.

"Well, it's long and I don't remember exactly what was said. But I'll give you the important stuff. When Einstein was in school, he smart-mouthed a teacher who claimed that God doesn't exist because there is evil in the world. God simply can't be around imperfection so, you know, yada yada. But, Percy, does darkness exist? Or the cold?"

I don't see the point of this story quite yet. I curl my arms around myself and pretend that it's Annabeth, wrapped around me again and sleeping soundly. Snoring, even. I can hear her weighty breaths. I squeeze my eyes tightly when mom looks away for a moment. And there are her eyes, her pretty curls, her gentle smile. Hell, I'll even take the noxious smell of her mouth in the morning, if I can only see her again. Hold her again. Kiss her, just once more.

"Scientifically, no. By definition, it is the absence of light and heat. And that's what evil is. The absence of God."

I burst from the couch, unable to take listening to her talking about this great God while Annabeth's somewhere else and I'm to blame. I grab my elbows and hunch my shoulders; maybe I can just block it all out. "That's—that's all great, mom. Really. But…"

"But what, Percy?"

"But _when_ does it start getting better? When do I start to feel okay again and when do I move on?"

Her hand ghosts over my shoulder and then is gone from my peripheral. There is a long suspension with nothing to smother the heavy air around us. She can hear my heart thrumming in my chest; she must. That is why she won't say anything. Because I am too loud in my own ears that I can't hear. Now is just a time for silence. Maybe she'll work at me again tomorrow.

Her light footfalls press the floor and then pause. "I don't know, Percy. It depends."

"On?"

"On when you're ready to let go." She taps her nails on the doorframe. "I'm going to sign you up for professional help, I think. The church has a counselor who's positively wonderful. She helped me after… after Gabe. She'll be patient. I promise."

* * *

"If one more person makes a joke about it, I'll kill someone," I mutter to my cousins. My face is blistering with a desire to defend Annabeth that never seems to fade in my chest. It manifests in my clenching jaw and fists, in my tight, white lips, in the slow breaths I take to calm down. _Count to ten, Percy. Get in control of your anger._

Ten isn't enough so I go to fifty. It's not working.

"They're just idiots," Thalia mutters at my side and then feigns throwing herself at some poor girl who had been eyeing us warily. She growls and tears a chunk of apple with her baring teeth. "I _hate_ people."

"We know," Nico mumbles into his sandwich. He'd been ogling it for the past half hour uncertainly after the shy girl in a grade below us brought it over to him. She apologized to all of us for what we were going through—Thalia plainly showed her how unwelcome her simply was—and placed her lunch at his feet with bright cheeks. Hard to notice, but still present on her ankle, a tattoo peeked out from behind her other leg and Nico's defenses dropped because she has ink and that makes her acceptable.

I almost told him not to eat it because girls guide you on the path to Hell and it's not worth it. But he seemed so pleased with himself; someone had just approached him in a kind manner. It's kind of a big deal. So I kept my mouth shut.

"I can't help it! People are so petty!" she cries and tears the sticker off of her fruit to roll between her fingers. "I mean, all they can do is meddle with other people and stick their nose in other people's business. _Have you seen modern magazines_? Why the hell would I care if you saw Brittany in a bikini? Go to the beach; about a billion other girls wear the same bikini and nobody says anything! And heaven forbid if a celebrity is caught _drinking_, legally or not! And stop the presses! Jay Leno blew his nose! _Ugh!_"

Nico has stopped his eating to watch her from the corner of his eye, mouth dropped open around the crust of the whole wheat bread. I knock his chin and tell him about all the flies he'll catch if he persists.

I laugh at his grumble but my glee is short-lived when someone trances by and snorts about how abusive I am to my friends. And something about how _rough_ I must like it in bed. I drop my eyes so that my glare can fix on my hands and not whoever I'm dying to beat.

But I don't have to do a thing. Thalia has pounced and slammed the girl's face into the wall, effectively breaking her nose. I can't tell if it has a positive effect on me; it's smothered by the memory of Annabeth's bare body. The bend of her collarbone. The dips of her ribs. The intimate curve of her hipbones leading down, down, down.

I'm being gathered and hauled away with Thalia and the dark curls with the bloody face.

I get off free; Thalia is suspended indefinitely; Curls has a week of detention.

"It was worth it," she snorts and flashes her fangs in the other direction where Curls is sniffling for her mother.

* * *

Immediately to my left is a vase brimful with jonquils and forget-me-nots.

They're bursts of white amongst dusty blues. They reach up, up, up trying to catch God's attentions in their pretty blooms and when there's no more room, they reach out to touch mere mankind. The outermost blossoms curve to the ground, heavy with the weight of disappointment that humanity has become.

How fitting.

Across from me, Ms. Pallas—the elderly and most-probably eternal maiden—with a wilting smile and squared shoulders regards me. In her lap she drums her pen on the side of her leg. I think she's analyzing me, by the way she says nothing but grins knowingly. Her legs cross at the ankles, angled away from her body in a manner that must be uncomfortable. Hanging from her neck, a glittering crucifix with the downcast face of Jesus reviewing my psych sheet. I wonder what he thinks of it.

She stoops suddenly over the clipboard and scribbles something. I wonder, then, if she's waiting for me to begin. Is that how this works?

I clear my throat when I find that I can't speak. She peeks at me over her wire rims.

"Why, uh," I point at the vase because it's the first think I can think to talk about, "why those?"

"What, dear?"

"The, um—the flowers. Why that type?" I decide against naming them specifically to spare some sliver of masculinity that remains. I could justify with my mother spouting out different little facts about the flowers Paul would bring her, but it doesn't seem redeemable in my mind.

That's where I recognize them from. The vase in the bathroom.

Ms. Pallas blinks over at the blue blotches and white wisps unknowingly. I don't think her flowers are often enough a concern of her patients. Which is a shame because the blooms, though I can't recall specifics at the moment, symbolize a great deal.

"Never mind," I mumble and sink back further in the leather seat, desiring a vanishing act to come to my aid. I want to just disappear, be anywhere but here at this very moment.

"They're jonquils," she tells me after a moment and looks to me unseeing. "Jonquils and forget-me-nots."

"They're very pretty."

"Yes," she drawls and then blinks in rapid succession to refocus her gaze. She meets my eyes. "Yes, they are. Have you heard one of the origin stories for the name forget-me-not? It's not quite common, I suppose, amongst your generation. That sort of thing usually isn't. But I'll tell you this," she leans towards me with the weight of her conspiratorial whisper and continues: "It's about lost love."

Oh. How freaking perfect.

"And jonquils," she straightens her back again and settles the perfect sides of her skirt. "Those symbolize desire, among other things."

"What other things?"

"Sympathy," she tells me factually and picks up her previously forgotten pen, clicking it back to life on her knee cap. "Sympathy for when life is a little too overwhelming."

"How… appropriate."

"Now, Mr. Jackson," she levels her gaze and swipes away the past conversation. "I'm sure you're not here to talk horticulture with me. Let's start from the beginning."

"I have nothing to say." And I don't. I've used all my heart for this topic in my angry bursts with the police in Interrogation Room B, Thalia holding my hand or knee the entire way through.

She hums to herself and jots down some notes. An uncomfortable silence swallows the room in the moments when she says nothing and I pretend she doesn't exist. This is usually while she records my behavior and thoughts. She hums again. "Okay, then how would you feel if I were to ask you a few questions?"

"Whatever."

"Tell me about yourself."

"You're gonna have to be a little more specific."

"Give me a background. Someone's past is often their identity. Let me know who _you_ are, Percy."

"I hope that's not true. Because if it is, then I'm a pitiful excuse for a childhood, a smelly step father, and numerous odd jobs between petty schooling." I'm starting to feel the old familiar bitterness for my life creeping in the back of my throat, causing everything to taste metallic. I thought it had escaped me, but I realize now that it was only around Annabeth, with her problems stirring me to be selfless, that I could forget my trifling hardships.

She _hmms_ and writes.

"Okay, well, no. I mean, Gabe was horrible and I didn't have a lot of the same opportunities as other kids because cash was tight. But, none of that was really as big as I made it to be." I conjure up an average day, throw myself back in time to mom's rebellious blue cookies and crippled best friends. Playing up and down the hall of our old apartment for the sake of irritating our neighbors, who would in turn rile up Gabe about controlling me. Who would then skip out that night to pollute the local bars with his rancid stench, leaving mom and I to our own devices. We'd feast and laugh, drinking root beer and challenging each other to varying contests of all sorts.

Who can eat the most cookies?

Who can hold their breath the longest?

Who gave the best hugs?

Who could throw the most 'I love you more's in one sitting?

"Mom lost her job when I was little. She would never tell me the details but I know that she married Gabe for my own good. Out of desperation. Because she's the best kind of person in the world. Selfless and strong; she did her best to raise me up right. I don't know if she was successful."

Ms. Pallas whirrs and scribbles lightly. "Well, there's still time to find out."

I clench my fists and steel myself. Mom wants me to talk with this woman; it'll be easier, I tell myself, to unload on a stranger because there's no attachment, no room for disappointing. Just detached honesty; it'll do me good.

"When I was five," I start and gauge Ms. Pallas: impassive and unreadable, "I made friends with the new boy in school. He had moved to New York from Louisiana, following his father's and his father's father's dream. They were on the cusp of discovering a self-sustaining energy source or something. All I know is it was big; kids like us didn't pay attention to that stuff.

"What kids like us _did_ know is that he was _different._ And _different_ is _wrong_. Grover had a disorder with his leg muscles that restrained him with crutches. Kids would shove him when we lined up to go to music or art. And they would shove him in the lunch line. They'd knock his tray out of his hands or something and finally he went home crying. The next day he had a brown paper bag filled with all the essentials: yogurt, Oreos, and a PB&J. So, naturally, the other kids took it.

"At recess, Grover would sit on a bench and watch the other kids since he couldn't play with them. So I sat with him. I told him it was because I don't like to exert myself. I wish I had told him how much I admired him. Because he was different, but he was the good kind. And he was really good at being different. Boys our age liked Ninja Turtles but Grover liked to read." I can't help but laugh. "He read Charlotte's Web to me once. When we were having a sleepover. I _fell asleep_ and he kept reading.

"My mom made a home movie out of it. Me: lying on my face with my butt stuck up in the air, snoring, and Grover paying me no mind. He just kept reading. He would bring the book really close to his face," I mime holding a novel close to the point of touching my nose and snort, "when he couldn't pronounce a word and then set it back in his lap, nodding as he went."

I pause, suddenly, as all of the good feelings that came with _that_ Grover get stifled by all of the hurt. I press my fingers to my chest, right in the middle, to feel my racing heart. Ms. Pallas allows me the moment.

"The teasing got worse as we got older. When our age group found out about _s-e-x_ in health class, fifth grade, there were jokes made about Grover. Some of us had older siblings who liked to poison us, so they were kind of precocious in that subject. We gathered around Nancy Bobofit one day while she told us what it sounded like when her sister had visitors. And how she had watched once from the closet. She said it was weird because you had to be naked, which didn't make sense because _ew_, and that it was a lot of leg work. She looked at Grover then and tossed her nose away immediately after."

I realize my eyes are stinging and right behind my left eyebrow lives a persistent pounding. I rub it away with two fingers.

"Girls wouldn't look at Grover the same. They had started tolerating him as we got older but since that day they wouldn't even acknowledge his existence. The other boys would point and laugh."

Breathing is hard right now. I rub the back of my hand over my upper lip and sniff my emotions back. I can't look at Ms. Pallas or the sympathetic jonquils so I fix my eyes on the window.

"A year later, the day before Christmas break, December 18, I was going over to hang out with him. We called the girl who lived across from him, Juniper, who would still smile at him when no one else was looking but us. And I encouraged him; I don't know why. But he asked her to be his girlfriend—which isn't much in sixth grade—and Grover's so shy anyways. It was all he had just to get the question out. And she said no. She told him," my hands shake in my lap, so I clench them around my thighs, "she said, 'I really like you but Nancy won't be my friend anymore if she knew that. You're not really cool, Gordo.' She couldn't even get his damn _name_ right. It ruined him. He told me he didn't want to hang out anymore and his mom sent me home with a candy cane to make up the difference. Two weeks later, Grover swallowed a bullet in his room."

I move a hand to clamp around my wrist and dig my nails in deep. Ms. Pallas has stopped writing.

"He didn't even leave a note. Everyone was so surprised; they blamed others for treating him so poorly. Nancy shoved Juniper when we got back from school—_Juniper_ who had the decency to cry and blame herself—and spit in her face for being such a—um, a _witch_ to her 'best buddy Grover.' For days my mom kept telling me that he didn't feel it because it was instant, but…"

I press two fingers limply to my cheekbone and jerk them like a shot going off.

"I can't help but feel like it didn't matter if he felt any pain. What matters is that what he felt _before_ he killed himself was so horrible that he had given up on his _life_." I press my palms together between my legs and bend over, and then rock back up, unable to sit still. "I think that was the point I gave up on people."

"Thank you for sharing," she says quietly and unfurls some papers beside her to clip on top of my file. "I think that's enough for today, don't you?"

I stare at her. "Aren't you going to say anything? Psychoanalyze me and what that means for my life? Tell me _that's _part of God's plan?"

Her nose lifts righteously and she sets me with stern eyes, not harsh but understanding. "You've already analyzed the situation. Would you like me to tell you how now you have a need to help the outcasts and the broken people in the world that runs deep? That's it's instinctive because you're trying to make up for losing your friend—"

"Grover."

"Grover," she amends quickly, "to things far beyond your control. The cruelty and ignorance of those other children are responsible for what happened, not you. But you've felt guilty for a long time. You told me you wished you had been honest with him? About admiring him? You blame yourself. You shouldn't."

"But I could've been _better_," I retort. I should've stood up for him and made myself enough for him. I never comforted him when Juniper rejected him. I just fumed silently and counted to ten like mother told me to.

"Maybe," she nods and stands, the clipboard falling to her side. "Now it's your choice: to learn from the past or to run from it. You've let it hurt inside for a long time, haven't you? Never talking to anyone about it? Next week, I'd like for us to talk about Annabeth and the correlation between her and Grover. Is that alright?"

"Fine," I bite and stand to head for the door.

"Before you go," she sets the file on her desk and keeps her back turned. "Consider this: _Annabeth_ is still alive. I think you're experience with Grover _has_ made you better. And while it hurts and it _is_ unfair, maybe God was just preparing you for this."

Yes. Maybe. But why Grover? Why not someone so much worse than him?

As I step through the door, I hear her call to my back, "I think your mother did right by you."

It takes me the walk to the front of the church and the drive home to figure out what she was talking about.

**Fin.**

**I think there will be one more chapter before the epilogue. We'll see. Extremely sorry this took so freaking long.**

**But I'm not a psychiatrist. What the heck do I know about psychoanalysis?**


	9. Chapter 9

**Whoops. There was an inconsistency in my story. Summer began and yet I had Thalia getting suspended and someone else got detention and ugh. Idiot.**

**So for the sake of time and wanting to finish this, let's just say summer began after the fact.**

**Also, no time to edit this. Seriously, sorry about that but it didn't fit in my schedule unless you wanted this in another week.**

* * *

**Quote: **_"If you don't get lost, there's a chance you may never be found."_ -Unknown

**Rating: T**

**Pairing: Percabeth**

**Spoilers: N/A**

* * *

**OPERATION RESTORATION  
**_Burden Bright_

* * *

"And what would you tell her now, Percy, if you had the chance?"

There is a long moment of simply trying to find the words that have murmured under my skin from the first day.

And then:

"I'm sorry I wasn't good enough, but I tried."

* * *

Mom adjusts the mirrors that I had recently fidgeted with when driving myself to therapy with the late Ms. Pallas two weeks ago.

It was to be our last session. When her image had appeared in the obituary, there was the immediate pull of helplessness. As much as it pains me to admit, the old hag had done some good in keeping me sane. I had associated soft tones, the pedantic tactics, with therapists and psychiatrists and the likes; that has always only served to rile me up again because I like when I'm not the only person behaving irrationally or out of anger. Pallas didn't use those advances because she had human emotions. She got angry and told me off; she laughed when I made an inappropriate joke and then told me to watch my mouth in God's presence.

And she wouldn't give me a moment of sympathy, even if I asked for it. Which I had. More than once.

But the old witch aged and passed me by, just like everyone else in my God-forsaken life. It sucks how much I miss talking to her.

And since then, mother's tried her best to get someone as good, if not better, because there had been an improvement. But now, I'm falling through the cracks, forgotten by the world.

"There's a new group that meets on Friday nights."

Today happens to be Thursday.

"They do a different type of therapy."

And based off of passed discussions, none of which ended well, I know where this is going.

Insert silence where mother expects my interest to peak. But honestly, I'm so done with the whole support system we humans have developed to fight off our guilt. We cause problems for each other constantly, namely with out hypocrisy and quick tempers. And then the lot of us want to cry on another's shoulders while we get our backs patted because _really, we don't deserve it. Life is so unfair. Ugh, woe is me._ But, yes. I think we do deserve it.

Most of us.

We even succeed in fooling ourselves; to err is human so we'll just have to grin and bear it. We pretend our mistakes aren't what define us but those brief moments of medieval vulgarity act as a window to our nature. They are the moments when the behaviors society has drilled into us, when are momentarily forgotten. When politeness is forgotten along with passivity and justice.

I don't want to participate, if that's quite alright.

"Not really in the mood to air my dirty laundry to a group of strangers. It was bad enough with the one person." Today is one of my bad days; they've become more and more frequent. I can't quite stand people or the world in general so just the suggestion grates my skin. My agitation is rising. I try to swallow it back. My whole body feels hot. I pray she doesn't pursue the topic. But she does.

"Well, we need to do something."

"I said no, mom…" Drop it. Just leave me alone. You'll only make it worse.

"Honey, I really think—"

"_Mom!"_ My hand slamming on the arm rest of the car seat only punctuates my anger and the sound startles me further. Things just don't know when to _freaking be quiet_; people don't know when to just _shut up. _Didn't she hear me the first time? I'll have no part in the pity party that will turn out to be. "I said _no_. I'm _done_ with _talking about my feelings_ and _finding constructive ways to _freaking live my life! If writing letters that won't be sent and taking hours out of my day to meditate—_meditate_, mom. Really!—didn't cut it before, then it sure as hell won't now. End of discussion."

I'm quivering with pent up rage that I've been harboring for weeks. At every turn, something sets me to thinking and I just get _livid._ And then I flip out. And every outburst I have only adds to the fire in my gut, in my chest. I just get angrier; there's no balm for this discontent with the world and life in general. None that I'm willing to pursue. And at this point, I've fallen so far from grave that I can't even feel remorse for lashing out. I only feel justified.

Not sated, but justified. That'll have to be my consolation prize in return for all of the anger. And really, I just want to stop feeling so much.

A few weeks ago, Pallas had diagnosed me with early stages of PTSD. Which at the time had seemed ridiculous. But now, I can only wonder if she nailed it on the head.

* * *

Naturally, I find myself staring at the address smudged onto my palm and then the double doors of the group therapy building. I should've known mom would win but with a brain this clouded, I couldn't even think of my last name.

The place doesn't look like much from where I stand. A brownstone building with two chipped doors and tarnished knockers on each on a street that rarely sees traffic. The community surrounding is questionable and not at all a place that I would've pegged as appropriate for people trying to salvage their sanity and peace of mind. On the windows are iron bars that I'll assume are meant to keep clients in. The building nests between a confectionery and a dentist's office—highly ironic and majorly tempting. I'd take a cavity over facing my past for another round.

Apparently, an AA group meets on Fridays as well. This seems perfectly logical, because everyone knows that unstable, possibly hostile drunks should mix with unstable, possibly emotionally stunted mourners/victims/crybabies.

It would make for good television. But this is reality. The turnout could be horrifying.

The building has scheduled meetings posted in a display case beside the left door. Some letters are missing, cluttered on the sill of the case, but everything is comprehensible. The range of groups meeting—from Gamblers Anonymous to Adult Children of Alcoholics Anonymous—is spaced out throughout the week so that only a few overlap. And some of the groups are just plain weird.

Clutterers Anonymous.

Food Addicts Anonymous.

Online Gamers Anonymous.

Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous.

Sexaholics Anonymous.

Sexual Compulsives Anonymous.

Survivors of Incest Anonymous.

Oddly enough, all of the sex groups meet on the same day in different areas of the building. I'd love to see how those meetings blow over.

Reading the list of twelve-step recovery groups feels like therapy enough for me. I could probably just take a peak at the chart every day and get a good laugh. I'll go home happy. I'm already highly amused and feel light as I pull open a door and step inside. A blast of cold air flusters my clothing. I think I could tolerate this is the sign was any indication. It's possible these people have a sense of humor. They must if they threw the sex junkies into a building with assorted rooms for a few hours.

The hall is long and not exactly encouraging, with a stained carpet and dying plants lining the walls, but I push on in the direction of the elevator that looms at the end of the corridor.

When I step in, I'm not alone. A pretty girl, very petite and overly cheerful, waits with her fingers twined in front of her. Her dark, tight curls burst from her head valorously and wide eyes stare unabashedly. The look on her face comes off as not a little loony. Despite her small frame, she has the evident sort of curves that readily present themselves under her black leggings and baby blue t-shirt. She rocks up onto her toes. I try not to feel awkward.

Most of the numbers have been worn to illegibility and so in their place are either handwritten characters or taped-on strips of paper with poor penmanship. When I lean over to press the paper three, she smacks my butt, forcing me to flinch back and gawk. She grins casually and bats her lashes. _Don't feel awkward_.

During the ride up, the elevator chokes twice and nearly stalls, providing a brief heart attack at the thought of what she'll do, then putters along at a leisurely pace. The girl keeps watching me with too-bright an expression to possibly belong in a fine establishment such as this one. I almost ask if she's lost but I don't actually care that much. She starts chattering—to herself mostly—about how her day has been—or maybe she's talking to me—and then asks where I'm headed. She assumes the AA. It becomes increasingly harder not to feel awkward.

I don't dignify that by answering her. Thankfully the door swings open. She trails behind, humming to herself, and when she sees me pass the open door with the words 'Alcoholics Anonymous' written on a white board in green marker with not even a second glance, she grins and loops her arm through mine. I try to subtly push her away but she can't take a hint and latches on more firmly.

That discomfort from earlier is crawling up my back and I try to keep at bay the cruelty waiting to manifest itself. I feel smothered, trapped in her grip. Out of control. I tell myself that she's just eccentric and I've had to deal with that my entire life. This works, if only in helping me to simmer silently in my own skin.

She drags me with ceremony into our appointed meeting place and introduces me to the therapist—a too-sunny guy no older than twenty-five—as her new best friend. Thankfully he recognizes my agitation and lends a helping hand by asking her to take a seat by him. No chair near her is unoccupied. One point for sunny therapist.

She almost shoves a lady of about fifty years out of her chair but our _liege_ restrains her. I can't wait for all of the false confidence and constant joy this guy is going to try to fill us with. I'm just antsy at the thought of it all. I could burst at my honest-to-goodness excitement.

He gestures with a slight smile for me to find a seat and I turn to the rest of the group. It's my luck that two seats away from the only open chair sits Miss Annabeth Chase, hugging herself while she watches me. And everything I've pushed away slams into me, full force, unapologetic. I nearly leave but the boss man quietly shuts the door and moves to his throne where he'll evaluate our mental worth.

I cast my eyes down when I slump into the seat but I'm powerless to stop the burn her gaze inflicts.

The trail of imaginary fingers on my skin; whimpers at my collar for so many different things. The press of skin to hot skin.

My heart beats radically in my windpipe and breathing feels like my first and last time. A warmth spreads from between my shoulder blades and up, wrapping tightly around my neck, masking my face and tainting my ears. It might be dread; I could argue in favor of dread. But _excitement_ is the word that sits in my lap and _Annabeth_, the one that licks up my throat with a contented sigh.

* * *

It must've been somewhere between the man whose parents died from carbon monoxide poisoning and the fifty-three year old grandmother whose granddaughter drowned while in her care that my problems stopped mattering so much. I couldn't hold a candle to the hell these people have suffered. And I was wrong to assume that this was a pity party. It's real people with real issues that really need the help. Victims of circumstance, not really their own error, like me. I am the only one here of my own undoing.

_Wes_, the _wunderkind,_ asks for volunteers, Annabeth pipes in, and I nearly choke on the water that Jessica, the sexually abused and rather precocious brunette who got cozy with me in the elevator, handed out at _Wes'_ request.

Annabeth hesitates and _Wes_ says just the right something to put her at ease. She even gives him a smile; a real, dimple-producing smile that makes her whole being light up.

What the hell type of name is _Wes _anyway?

Annabeth dives right in, opting to leave out what exactly landed her in child services. She wasn't conquered by fate, then, but by a poor, immature decision by a young girl.

Listening to others rant about stuff that seemed larger than life to me was—in a sick and majorly disturbed way—therapeutic. But now I've got to relive what I've worked hard to put behind me. I don't want Pallas' legacy to fade in a room full of psych hazards and plastic-tasting water.

With every passing moment, the air gets thicker and my fists get tighter. In her story I've earned the title of _some guy at school_: a step up from _adoptive dad_ and about thirty below _best friend briefly turned lover._ I try to understand the demotion but there's no excuse reasonable enough to soothe the sting of rejection.

At times, she stops talking to make an angry face at her hands or to sigh wistfully. I wish she'd look to me for that little push to go on. I want to know that I'm still her one and only. Her best friend. Her other half; her partner. But her eyes trail to _Wes_ for acknowledgement that she's on the right track and for the okay to continue. I breathe in defeat and it wraps its way around my everything.

She strategically leaves out every late night rendezvous between her and _some guy at school_. Poor kid was just a stepping stool in the grand scheme, the ledge that equaled up-and-out freedom. Of course, at the time she could only see him as a traitor because he was the cause for her being uprooted and thrown into three different foster homes. She was ineligible for the missionary family that wanted to go to Uganda in the spring; the boy in the uptown family found their charity case attractive and when he dumped his Ivy League girlfriend, they had to eliminate the problem; she had the third family arrested for making moonshine.

She doesn't think she'll last long in family number four because they've already fought for hours over sleeping arrangements. Things aren't looking up for her.

I don't know if my anger overrides the heartbreak coming back with renewed force but when _Wes_ looks to me for show-and-tell, I snap. I tell him an explicit thing or two about how it's not really my thing.

Majority of the group looks away quietly and there is a tense moment. But Annabeth keeps her eyes locked on and I turn to match her.

"Why are you even here?"

"Now, Annabeth," _Wes_ chimes helpfully.

"Everyone has a story, _Annabeth_," I throw out, not-so-helpfully in my lack of effort to hide my disdain.

"I know yours. You have no reason to be here." She should think that. I never hid anything that she ever asked about. We studied each other more intently than our school work, more purposefully than we did ourselves. She _should_ think that. But her assumption that I didn't feel any of her pain guides a knife into my back.

"Screw you, Annabeth—"

"_Hey!_" _Wes_ again, always a man with the words.

"_Again?_ No thanks." Here, _Wes_ doesn't know if he's supposed to take her seriously. I don't either. And I didn't screw her; that's not all it was in my mind. The thought of it processing in that manner for her deflates me and then I'm surged with the bitter power of rage.

"You don't know everything about me."

"Yes, I do." Her face is red and extremely close to mine when I realize that we've stood with violent intentions; Jessica nearly throws herself to the ground to hold us back. Her whole frame is rigid; so is mine. Her breathing is labored; so is mine. I'll bet her heart is pounding because mine is. "_Yes_, I really do."

"No—"

"Your favorite color is _blue!_"

"…What?"

"Your favorite color is blue." I remember that conversation ending up in a fight about the color wheel_._ "You only like waffles if they're homemade with strawberries and whipped cream. You don't like Diet Pepsi, but you'll drink Diet Coke and you had a diabetic dog when you were fourteen that you buried in your cousin's flower box." Her anger streams into me and the energy she had fades. Mine keeps going because of all of these mixed signals and all of the bull that lingers in her presence. Why is she softening? Why are her words slowing? "Your dad left when you were young and your mom married a drunkard. You didn't learn to tie your shoes until you were seven because you always wore sandals. You sleep on your stomach when it's cold outside and your side when it's hot—which is weird, by the way." Her voice is faint; I'll venture to say it's nostalgic. Here is an appropriate place to laugh except it's not funny. Two broken kids hashing it out in front of broken people. Not even sure of who they are yet, and they've found certainty in someone who might not be forever. "You have ADHD and dyslexia. You're impulsive and rash. You kiss like it's your last chance and you're a gentle…" She trails but I know the end to that sentence, can see it in the red of her cheeks.

I'm swaddled in embarrassment and enraged that she'll talk to me so openly about that sort of thing, when before it wasn't up for discussion even in private. When I wanted us to have some definite outline and she wouldn't even broach the subject.

"You can't carry a tune in a bucket," she continues in a hushed murmur, "but I loved it when you'd play with my hair and hum. You used to be a gentleman. You used to be a mama's boy, so selfless and loyal."

"Used to be?" I demand, much louder than called for.

"Yes," she snaps her eyes to mine. There is something there that's unidentifiable; it's firm but pressing. Desperate, even. I feel my fingers sting with want to reach at the same time that my legs want to carry me far away. "But now I can hardly recognize you."

I level my voice, registering faintly that _Wes_ is telling us to sit down, and repeat my assertion from earlier that she doesn't know everything. Obediently, Annabeth slides into her seat and avoids my eyes.

After I've fled the building and called mom to pick me up, I wonder who Annabeth sees now if she can't recognize the me she knew so well.

* * *

I don't return to group therapy for another two weeks. I couldn't face that room filled to the brim with skeletons.

On the car ride home I told mom about the scene we had caused upon our first interaction in months. About the uncertainty and the want and the unadulterated anger. She understood the need to separate myself from the situation, as Pallas had suggested, but this week she—in her own sly way—convinced me to give it another chance. Wouldn't it feel great to tell my story and rub it in Annabeth's face? _See? I told you, you don't know everything._

_Wes_ recently prescribed some medication to counter the symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder after he read through my old file (handwritten by good old Pallas, still raising hell for me).

I'd rather smoke weed.

While the drugs have calmed me down considerably, they've left me feeling dead inside. I couldn't cry when watching Marley & Me, which I found disturbing, but then I even laughed at the memory of Mr. M. Phisher and Annabeth and Grover and just my life in general. I immediately dumped the bottle down the drain. I'd rather brave the pain and the anger than the apathy.

So anyway, as Jessica speaks today—her whole cheery countenance is whittled away until she's shaking and sobbing—I plan exactly what I want to say. I need to say everything about Grover because he deserves to be remembered properly, and then I'll ease into the familiar discussion of Gabe—I'll never hide his true nature behind secrecy; I'll ruin him openly for all the world to know. I have for years—and finish with Annabeth. But I don't just want it to be about her. As I think, I realize that it was as much a horrible experience for me as well. She's told her side minus the true depth of our relationship and her brief mention of suicide. That ties her to Grover and maybe then she'll understand why I betrayed her.

I was saving Grover as much as I was her by telling.

So it's my turn.

_Wes_ starts rambling about hope for the future and the good we should try to find every day, wrapping up the day's session. I can't bear to listen to his inconsequential speech much longer so I redirect by clearing my throat. He turns to me attentively.

"Percy," he says measuredly, all eyes on me, "did you have something to add?"

So I hit the ground running.

It's not quite as smooth and detached as in my head. I digress often and stutter, attempt to bite back my vigorous emotions fruitlessly, and talk a tad too fast. My face buries itself in my hands to hide the tears and the resulting embarrassment when the topic of sixth grade appears hastily. I can hardly breathe when Grover pulls the trigger and I poorly slide into the topic of Gabe. The power of my testament wilts when my face becomes stony at the mention of Gabe's gambling problems. I don't linger excessively on his cigars and constant flow of beer only for the swift blow to the gut that is the reveal of Gabe hitting my mother. Nothing like with Annabeth, but just as immoral and unjust.

And suddenly, it's all about Annabeth. It's always about her. In my story, she is _some girl at school_ but everyone knows better by now. I talk about how surreal it felt at the beginning. She's being abused and that's terrible so I should try to comfort her. I'll do my best to be her friend. I'll talk her through it; I just want to be the one to save her. If I stay up late enough and if I make enough jokes then all is well with her.

And then suddenly, it's _that_ night.

I fell asleep on her couch. Idiot. It was an accident; a mistake. He came home. The look on her face, the way his body moved predatorily, the blur of my vision and cognitive control. The week of absence that followed.

When she told the story, he had glued her palms to the wall and slapped her across the back with his belt, and then left her there with the angry red welts already forming. She was mortified, trapped there for a week, soiling her pants and vomiting on herself. Passing out on multiple occasions. Being force-fed too quickly, leaving her gagging and gasping for air.

I mentally put myself right there beside her, absorbing the blows, trying to hold in the need to relieve myself to no avail. The stench was essentially awful and whatever pride she had must have been stripped away. The shadow of pain sweeps across my back and I straighten up to pacify it.

I pursue an end to the tale but it keeps going. The need to protect her, the ache in my chest when I thought—think—of her in so much pain. The buildup of too many different emotions towards her, all positive and hard to swallow. The talk of suicide. And then Grover comes back again and the circle is complete and when I glance at her I can see the connection, the interlude of shame, and then the cloak of passivity.

And there is nothing left but this:

"I'm sorry I wasn't good enough, but… but _damn,_ I tried."

And it feels so final.

**Fin.**

**This is officially the last chapter. Next is the epilogue. And then the discarded ideas and such.**

**But for now: I FINISHED. I DID IT. I COMPLETED A STORY. NO ONE CAN STOP ME NOW.**

**Tada!**


	10. Chapter 10

**I could give you every very _legitimate_ excuse I've got. But... well, I won't.**

* * *

**Quote: **_"Something's watching over me like sweet Serendipity."_ -Lee DeWyze

**Rating: T**

**Pairing: Percabeth**

**Spoilers: N/A**

* * *

**OPERATION RESTORATION**

_Burden Bright_

"Please eat," I murmur to the small body hunched over a steaming plate of grilled chicken, broccoli and mashed potatoes. I took special care today, during my shift in the kitchen, to marinade and expertly season the meat, rubbing it tender and lighting it ablaze on our outside grill. The garlic mashed potatoes are salted tastefully, as done by Mrs. Kay under my instruction, and the broccoli is steamed and buttered to a point where it's bearable.

It's a dish my mother made for me whenever there was a celebration of sorts in the air: graduation, my first job, moving out, graduation (part II: college edition). Or if she was just feeling particularly generous, she'd pull on her apron from the church kitchen and tie her hair up with a pretty smile in my direction, and then she'd slap together her palms and rub them eagerly.

"_It's dinner time, baby."_

That had become a weekly regular when I was sixteen. I'd come home from therapy drained, mentally and emotionally, just wishing for a hot shower and an even hotter date with my pillow—a pillow that had taken the title of punching bag and shoulder-to-cry-on in the midst of one momentous night. Then, after I'd toed off my shoes, I'd be hit with the overpowering tang of that dinner favorite and my exhaustion would be blindsided by want and a suppressed hunger. Chicken popping as mom tossed it in the frying pan and potatoes situated in the colander bowl waiting to be ground into a fluffy side dish.

Eventually, mom weaned me off of the comfort food but it remained the go-to meal when one of the three of us was having a particularly bad day.

Today is a very bad day.

I woke to the twang of my alarm stiff and drenched down into my bones, with my fingers tangled in my bed sheets; my whole form trembled. My throat ached dully. A light patter on the window crossed the room, all the while straining to be heard over my pounding heart. Beads of rain gravitated towards the charred desolation of the chamber, and then collapsed on each other and fell mightily towards the sill. Branches teetered under the slight wind and pattered on the window feebly. A surge of light manifested the room, seeping over everything like a blanket of quicksilver, followed closely by the roll of a drummer hidden amongst the clouds.

My fingers clamped on my pectoral and I heaved and choked on my air for a while until the next clap of thunder that was quickly followed by a string of silence, only infiltrated by the drabble of rain. When I slipped from my bed, shoving aside the stringed memory of a nightmare that fought to tie me down, and leaned in to check my calendar, I considered calling out of work.

And when the idea had almost fled my mind, I considered it some more.

I threw myself back into the tangle of damp sheets and groaned into my pillow, trying to think my way out. Out of what, I couldn't say.

But the idea of staying home just wouldn't settle in my skin so I picked myself up and peeled my sleep shorts from my body while the shower heated. For a while, it just ran and ran and ran, overpowering the storm raging outside, and I just stared and stared and stared at my reflection. I couldn't help but dread over the fact that everyone would know as soon as they saw me that the rightness I'd found just wasn't with me today.

The bags under my eyes serve as proof enough. But my matted hair tangled worse than usual and the clamminess of my blanched skin are great additions.

I stumbled into the shower and rubbed at my shoulders, letting the showerhead pepper my face with a sweltering stream of water. But keeping my eyes closed proved problematic. A solid, black barrel stretching out under the command of a sobbing boy.

Did Grover cry?

When he decided to end it all, did he think of his mom, of his siblings of all ages? Of me?

My nightmares started one night while in the apartment of some girl attending my college, too late to be appropriate—of course, what we were doing wasn't really appropriate—after I had fallen asleep in her bathtub. That, itself, has a long and unnecessary story to it. But that night had been the first time I'd fooled around with a girl since high school. And while I hadn't brought myself to go all the way again since high school—and still have not—I had gone far enough for it to settle uncomfortably in my subconscious.

When I refused her, she'd gotten pissy and kicked me out of her room but I was too far gone to carry my sorry self home.

I shot up in a fit, tears streaming down my face, and cracked my head on the nozzle. That did nothing to staunch my sobs but I clapped a hand over my mouth, nearly hyperventilating, and cupped the top of my head. When I pulled back, my fingers were sticky with blood. Against my better judgment, I drove myself home and set about fixing a pot of tea and whipping out my Girl's Scout thin mints.

Sporadically, frequently, I'm plagued by visions, some blurred and frustratingly dim, others sharp and horrifyingly graphic.

Today, though years ago, I lost someone.

And I don't know if I'll ever see her again or even if I want to.

Presently, I lean into the table and grab one of the fresh, flaky rolls and set it on the girl's plate. There is a tense moment where she considers me, somewhat hostile, and I think she'll push her plate away completely. Then a spindly arm crawls across the table top and pulls at the buttery croissant and as soon as her fingers tear it in two and the steam erupts in a flavorful burst, she gives a small smile. It will always be carbs that win over children.

Little Reyna lost her home and her family after a break-in gone horribly wrong. Her parents had adopted and fostered multiple children, but she was their first and only child by birth. She'd been raised in the midst of a bustling and happy home, with kids to play alongside and good manners taught. Her guardians imparted kindness and compassion and wisdom. But the hardest of all was learning her on the fact that good things end, bad things happen, life isn't easy. In the hub of one night, while she was fortunately away, attending a sleepover, a pair of men crept in. And when the house awoke after the smashing of a vase, there was no hope for the unarmed Bundrens family.

We got her nearly a week ago, hours after the tragedy, and she was instantly wary of me and the only other male on staff, our bus driver, Braden. She huddled in closely to the side of our youngest volunteer worker, Emily, who just needed the hours to graduate high school. She tended to only work in the kitchen, washing dishes and taking out the trash, since that's all she qualified for. She had never interacted with one of the kids before. But Reyna clung and refused anyone else for the first day or so.

But progress can be made.

Now, she'll talk to me.

"Would you like some water, Rey—"

"No!"

The disappointment works into my side like a pinprick; I set the pitcher down with a sigh and lean back in my seat. "Right. I'm sorry."

Emily, who's weighted to the chair beside her by Reyna's strong grip, picks up the jug and pours a glass that the girl readily accepts. But at least Reyna let me sit at the table with her. It's something.

The other kids went on a field trip to the community pool. They've been on a lot of field trips, lately. Emily is forbidden from interacting with the other residents considering the fact that some of them are her age and we strictly obey our confidentiality agreement—usually. Every meal Reyna eats, though, is with Emily at her side, so we've had to work out an austere schedule.

"Have you made any frien—"

"No!"

"...Well, what about your bunkma—"

"No!"

"How abou—"

"_No!_"

I fold my hands on the table top and rest my forehead on the pads of my thumbs, willing away the forming migraine. My restless sleep last night and her insistence that I'm the bad guy are working my nerves to a point where I can hardly breathe. I haven't faced stubborn kids before. I've dealt with troublemakers and rabble-rousers (a term straight from Mrs. Kay's personal dictionary). But there's a difference between them and Reyna.

Because I can relate to kids who raise hell. But with this child I've got no angle to work with.

She simply won't allow me to try.

I look to Emily, commissioning her help. She brushes Reyna's hair back from her face while the younger girl nibbles on a slice of boneless chicken breast.

"Reyna, won't you talk to Mr. Jackson? Hmm? For me?"

She throws her fork onto her plate. "No!" She cries and scampers out of her chair, rattling the table as her legs race her to the dorm hall. She stops at the security door closing the corridor off from the rest of the facility, and pounds her fists on it until our office lady buzzes her in. Emily and I watch each other dismally, listening to her pattering feet and then the slam of her door with a wince. I let out a long sigh.

"We'll see how it goes tomorrow," I mutter as I push out of my own chair and scoop up the wasted dinner. Emily follows suit but takes the plate from me and meets my eyes confidently when I don't let go.

"I'll get her to finish. She needs to eat." Her hand falls on my forearm gently.

I relent and follow her to the hall, pulling out my ring of keys and unlocking the hall door for her. A buzz sounds throughout the dining area as I pull it open and walk her to the room; we stand awkwardly outside while Emily coaxes Reyna back out. It takes a good ten minutes before she relents at hearing that she'll get dessert if she cooperates and she steps out with a trail running down her dusty cheeks from crying. I press myself to the wall as they pass and settle back at the table.

I unclip my radio and buzz Amelia, one of our coordinators, asking her to come downstairs to supervise. I'll be heading out for the night. And when she arrives, I pull on my jacket and wave goodbye to Reyna. Little eyes go wide and then she snaps her head back to her plate, scooping up a forkful of vegetables. I step out into the dark and force the front door shut behind me.

My work van is none too handy at getting dates but that's not usually what I'm focused on when I'm getting myself from place to place. When I'm in it, there's a handful of kids bickering and laughing in the back seats after a McDonald's run, yelling for me to turn the music up and dreaming about whatever activity we have planned for them. And my mode of transportation majorly is the van.

I decide on a diner my mom took me to as a kid to pick up a cheap, but deliciously fattening, meal. It's patriotic and retro and just my speed after a rough day at work. There are older couples and families strewn across the booths and round tables. Only a few patrons loiter at the bar and I join them, trying to remain unobtrusive by hunching over and burying my face in a menu. From the jukebox I can faintly here Ritchie Valens humming out his hit "_Donna_". It's soft and nostalgic and works like magic on my heavy shoulders and pounding head.

I order a cup of coffee and a stack of waffles, whipped cream and strawberries to top it off. Just as I would eat them as a kid. I haven't had waffles in a few years, which seems odd to me. But I either hadn't had the time or was too concerned on preserving my current shape. Tonight feels like one of those nights that people just need to be reckless, so I order the waffles.

The waitress, in her long pink skirt and polka-dotted ribbon, swishes by and pours a cup of black and motions to the creamers and sugar packets. She scribes the order and dots the paper when she's done with her pen tip before slapping it down on the kitchen window.

Behind me, the bell above the door chimes.

A school of shouts surge into the diner and disrupt the calm almost immediately. Short legs race to the largest booth shoved into a nondescript corner of the joint. And following the pad-clad legs is a clump of exhausted soccer moms, game bags slung over their shoulders coupled with fashion-forward purses. They all have their hair pulled back in some fashion and simultaneously split to sit on the outer ring of the table, shielding us unsuspecting strangers from their riled up children.

One dark-haired boy stands in his seat and bounces excitedly with a smooth grin stretching cheek to cheek. He lets out a gleeful shout and a woman I assume to be his mother, an attractive blonde, leans forward and tells him—with much force and embarrassment—to sit down or else she'll take him home. He doesn't comply right away until he looks to her and registers the level gaze as _bad._

He sinks down. I sip my coffee.

My one-woman-show of a waitress skates by with three plates lining her forearm; without hesitation she selects my waffles and slides them in front of me. Keeps going to the next customer. Doesn't even look my way.

The waffles are nearly an exact replica of the ones from my memories. Fluffy, golden, crisp, heavily sweet, and stained pink from the sliced fruits topping them. When I take my first bite, I think of making the dish for the kids' breakfast. I'm certain they'll love it.

After my second bite, I begin composing a text to Mrs. Kay about the scheduled meals and just exactly what I'm looking forward to tomorrow morning. Her reply is instant, with a winking grin and an 'anything for you, sugar'.

When I'm half-way through my meal, the door dings again and is followed by a crisp breeze that tussles my hair. I muss it with my fingers and shake my bangs from my eyes. The jukebox flips mid-way through a tune to some Sinatra jazz, smooth like honey and rich in tone. When I glance in the general direction, not really minding and only half aware, I see another soccer mom with her son. Unlike the obnoxious orange crowd, he's got a bright green uniform on and black shorts.

More food in my mouth, syrup certainly ringing my lips, and as I reach for my coffee mug the seats beside me slide out with abrupt groans. I try not to look at them—there's no doubt it'll make them uncomfortable and 'creeper' is not really my style—but train my gaze on my waffles.

Mom situates herself between me and the kid, smoothing a cloth napkin across his lap and telling him to decide what he wants to eat. She sits back and throws her blonde curls over her shoulder, then clears her throat. She scans a menu. Her son sits, a perfect gentleman, a carbon copy, scanning his own kids menu with his chin dropped on the back of his hands. When the waitress skates by, he even throws out an 'excuse me' before asking her to please bring him a pack of crayons, if that's okay. His feet pick up a steady swing while he waits.

The air is immediately suffocating in its thickness. My skin crawls. I feel like his mother is too close, like I should scoot my chair just a few inches to the right, but that could be misconstrued as rude. I fidget as imperceptibly as I possibly can. I sip my coffee again and ask for the bill.

"Mommy," cute kid in green whispers. "Mommy, can I have what he had?"

Mom spares a glance and to my credit, I only watch her from my peripheral. She takes too long; she lingers. My throat tightens. She begins to drum her fingers on the counter top mutedly. And then, finally, her gaze flits back to her son.

"Sweetie, you should really eat something with more substance," she murmurs half-heartedly and with her words I'm immediately smothered by the gravity pulling me back to her. I'm not so obtuse as to not realize that these two soccer teams—orange and green—were probably versing each other. And making an educated guess, I'd say that green lost. She really shouldn't begrudge him anything tonight. "Besides, you know how sugar before bed gives you nightmares."

Sugar before bed used to give me nightmares.

"Yeah, but mommy," he starts to protest. "I promise to be really, _really_ good. _Please?_"

Mom's hands drop into her lap and she turns to him with that exasperated, impatient look that mothers get when they repeat themselves to children that don't yet grasp the concept of 'no'.

My tab is slid around my plate and I cast a thoughtless eye to the waitress with a quiet snip about gratitude. I pull out my wallet as I stand and throw down a twenty dollar bill. As I move towards the door, my eye catches on the line of the woman's neck, on the slant of her mouth, and my feet stutter. My hand lingers on my back pocket where my leather wallet was just secured.

Before I can do something stupid, I hurry from the diner and slide into the van. My heart pounds and my ears ring; that's all there is. I can't feel anything. To ground myself, I wrap my arms around the stinging cool of the steering wheel and press my forehead to it, muttering every curse in every language I can think of in alphabetical order.

* * *

At home that night, I snap.

Everything on my counter top is sent flying across the room, except for a family portrait that can never _ever_ be taken for granted ever again. I rip my drawers from there tracks and toss whatever I can. I scream through gritted teeth. I kick my bed post and follow that up with a colorful range of expletives that I've managed to strip from my vocabulary for the most part.

Hot tears pool in my eyes and blur the walls of a room that I've managed to keep empty of company and happiness for so long.

My body collapses under the weight of remembrance onto my sheets.

She was so close, so close, so _damn close._ Right there, within my reach. For years, for _years_, I'd worked hard to push her from my thoughts. And for a long while, out of sight managed to keep her out of mind. It was just barely enough. I began to help kids that the world had given up on, gave myself a purpose; I survived. I started to breathe again; playing fifth wheel with Thalia and Nico, playing wingman, harmless flirting became easy. It became natural to look.

But never touch. Why not?

I'd survived; I'm surviving. I've convinced myself that this is enough, this is okay.

But I want to live. I don't want to just _breathe_; I want to breathe _deeply_ and _purposefully.__  
_

That weight on my chest is back. It won't let me.

Because after all of this time—after all these _years_—it still hurts. I don't think it will ever stop hurting.

* * *

Every night for weeks I find myself in that seat at that diner eating that dinner.

Waiting.

The same waitress—_Gracie_—breezing by on her rollerblades, chomping on three sticks of gum at least, calling out orders and naming her regular customers with pet names. Other patrons that don't frequent the place are simply 'Honey' but I'm Sugar Daddy. The old man three seats down is Squirrel. And then the booth two away from the corner booth, five feet from the jukebox, is occupied by Sweetcheeks, Love and Bubba. Don't ask for their birth names, she couldn't tell you, but she knows for a fact that Sweetcheeks has a granddaughter starting kindergarten and Squirrel has a son that's older than his third wife, who blessed him with a daughter that's just bloomed into a blushing 18-year-old bride. Bubba and Love have been married for nearly seventy years and they've got a love story to last the ages recorded in some old letters that have been tucked away in a cigar box.

And I am her mystery case. Because when she asks, I've got nothing to say.

I'm from nowhere, not really doing much of anything, with not much of anyone.

My visits have become so regular and predictable that she's developed the uncanny ability to slide my order on the counter in front of my seat the moment the bell chimes overhead to announce me.

Same steam of coffee a wisp of warmth cradling my face.

Same bite of strawberries a lick of sweetness on my tongue.

Same pouch of people a horde of quiet but hearty company.

And then again, every week, same day, the quaint diner is overrun by rogue children that tug their mom's along by their leashes. Same orange uniforms. Same boy standing up to cause a commotion much to his mother's chagrin. This time today, though, one freckled kid with glasses actively participates in our musical entertainment of the evening. For some incomprehensible reason, he settles on 'Drip Drop' and I nearly choke on my coffee. Couldn't he have chosen _anything_ else? I'd even settle for some Elvis.

And then, _of course_, halfway through my stack of waffles, the door cries out for my attention. Every week. She slides into the seat next to me, tucks her child in and oh my gosh, she's got a child. She has a son with mussed hair a few shades lighter than my own. A son with dimples and a missing canine tooth. And where do children come from? Men. Men who are not me.

I try not to, but I listen to every word that drops from her lips like manna. I haven't listened to her in so long. And there's something different, something that wasn't there those years ago. A new shade of exhaustion, a strange aged wisdom that shouldn't be hers. A frustration.

"Waffles, momma?" He presses his fists into his lap and stretches his neck as he extends her a drawn out _please_. His cleats swing back and forth, scuffing the linoleum floor with each pass.

"Baby," she settles her own hands in her lap and gives him that motherly head-tilt that means she'll give him what he wants this time but she doesn't have to like it. And he rewards her with the biggest, sweetest smile of his life.

Gracie swoops in with my check and shouts out: "Same time tomorrow, yeah, Sugar Daddy?" Before my response is even half-formed in my mind, she's gone to Squirrel to hand over his apple pie and dollop of whipped cream.

I don't even think. I slide from my seat with the bill and payment clasped firmly in my hand, and stride over to hover at Squirrel's shoulder, the old man chattering mindlessly into his pie while Gracie stabs the crust with a fork. She catches me a moment before she can skate off and leans toward me. Her elbows prop themselves on the counter.

"What'cha need, hot shot?"

"Do me a favor? Open a tab, yeah?"

She gives me a wary squint on her left side and drops her head down a notch. Her manicured nails drill into the peeling bar. "What for?"

It occurs to me then that this might be awkward for her. And that maybe Annabeth will get the wrong impression. And that I'll probably just manage to piss her off. But I couldn't care less. From years of living under the care of a single mom, I'd recognize the tone anywhere. It creeps in, the loneliness and hardship, when they want it to the least and invades their dreams. It robs them, even, of their waking hours. A meal is the least I could do.

"The two over there," I toss my head their way. "Mother and son? I wanna pay for their meals."

Gracie just raises an eyebrow and scrutinizes me for a long while. I've got the decency to be briefly embarrassed and just as I start to blush and think that maybe she won't help me this one time, she holds out a hand for my bill and skates off with an approving 'humph'.

I slip out of the restaurant and make my way home, wondering how next week will change, if at all.

I prepare for her to get angry with me, to stubbornly refuse. I'll tell her that anything she says won't change my mind. That it's the least I could do. That I'm still trying to be enough.

* * *

The door hums a week later at the perfect time to make my entire frame tense up.

I've managed to get through only a quarter of my waffles this time but it doesn't change the palpable shift in the wind. The entire diner seems emptier, quieter, lonelier. Because this is it.

This is where she tells me off. Says I don't have any right to even think of showing up in her life again. She'll huff indignantly and grab her son's hand and never show up in the diner again and my efforts will have been a waste. She'll pretend to not know that I exist and—oh God, what if she doesn't even recognize me?

Somehow, that'll be worse than hateful words.

I set my fork down as soon as her presence loops into mine. I feel her eyes on the side of my head as she drops down into her usual chair. She settles her son and then turns to me. And says nothing. Just watches me and breathes and blinks and I'm going to be sick. I can't handle the merciless prolonging.

I clutch my fork and drag a bite of waffle through my lake of syrup. It's ash in my mouth. I can't eat anymore, not with her hard stare on the side of my head. I call to Gracie, nearly half an hour earlier than usual and request my bill. I pay and stand to leave, shoving my wallet deep into my back pockets, and then:

"Percy?"

I freeze. From head to toe; even air seems a thing of the past. At the very least, she remembers and that's weight drifting free and falling hard. I pull my hands in front of me and smooth them down the legs of my pants. My fists clench.

It's in my moment of defeat, after I've decided that I can't just ignore her, that my head lolls forward to touch chin to chest and I peer at her from the corner of my eyes. So weak, so exhausted.

Her breath hitches and then smoothes, so fast I'd have thought I imagined it if I hadn't spent so long memorizing her breathing. "I just, uh, wanted to… to thank you. For last week. It, um—you don't have any idea... Well, just thank you. For everything."

I didn't get yelled at. She should've yelled; I would've understood the yelling.

But I don't linger on that as I step out into the night.

I just wonder how she'll react to find out that she'll never have to pay to dine there again. And if maybe, just _maybe_, we've got a chance to be friends again.

At the very least, we could be friends.

* * *

Two weeks later, she comes to the diner alone, spins me around, and steps between my legs to throw her arms around my neck.

When I feel her quaking, I wrap myself around her, bury my face into her neck.

"God, I've missed you," she murmurs, her lips branding me as they move to the patterns of her whispers.

**Fin. For Part I. Maybe.**

**Yeah. The epilogue—the freaking **_**epilogue**_**—had to be divided into two segments. There was just so much to write that I couldn't leave unsaid. And I promised this two weeks ago? While I do have legitimate excuses, I'm sure you're not interested so I won't go there. Part II… hopefully by Saturday. Miraculously, before Saturday. We'll see.**

_**Update:**_** Do you want me to just leave it here? I could.**


	11. Chapter 11

**The longest and happiest chapter yet, so for everyone that I reduced to tears... here. Be happy and smile and don't contemplate too much.**

**Quote: **_"It argues that true love will triumph in the end, which may or may not be true, but if it's a lie, it's the most beautiful lie we have." -_John Green

**Rating: T**

**Pairing: Percabeth**

**Spoilers: N/A**

* * *

**OPERATION RESTORATION**

_Burden Bright_

* * *

For four weeks, she's shown up with Cooper leading the way. And for four weeks, she's progressively started to make small talk.

The topics are weak at best; I know how she feels about our current politics and I can clearly see that the weather's been decent today, thanks, and yeah, gas prices are ridiculous. Like, seriously what sort of bull is our president trying to pull here. Somedays she'll rant about his personal army, Brown Shirts, that are supposedly designated to disaster relief yet they're armed to their teeth with advanced weaponry; meanwhile, military training is being reduced? Yeah, that's not suspicious…

But despite all of this, at the end of each meal, as Cooper's slowly tottering his way to the door—moving slower than any living thing I've seen—with his eyes drawn to the coloring page she's given him, she steps between my legs and holds tight to me. And despite my generic and minimal responses to her attempts at conversation—subjects that are too dreary for me to healthily allow to steal my attention—I always find myself bringing her closer, closer, _closer._

Her breath plays warmly on my neck, and she paints my jaw with butterfly kisses, and her skin is charged and hot, sending bursts of electricity humming through my veins. Her lips ghost across my skin, my lips hover over hers, but never do they touch. I crave that touch.

After six weeks of this routine, I find myself running late; I've had to deal with a mental breakdown that's got me shaken up pretty good.

Today, after I've pulled open the door and prepare to step in, a hand falls on my shoulder. I swivel my head and catch sight of her over my shoulder with a breathy smile. Cooper gives me a timid wave from behind her leg.

She catches a breath of air and pulls her hand off of my shoulder, busying it with looping her rogue hairs behind her ear. "Percy… hey."

I side-step to hold the door for her. "Hey yourself."

As they pass, my eyes follow Cooper and a smile curls my lips; I extend my hand, angled enough so that he can choose between a high-five and a handshake. For a second, I think he'll give me the firm grip he displayed last week, but after a quick glance at his mom's back, he settles on slapping my palm and matches my dramatic wink.

The kid and I understand each other; we speak the same language.

When Annabeth's looking, act cool; be mature. Otherwise, all bets are off.

I like it.

He hurries along behind her and tosses me occasional glances; either to make sure I'm following or because he's still wary of me, I couldn't say. He climbs up into his seat, and I notice that he's ditched the soccer uniform and replaced it with a dark blue polo and jeans. Kid's got style; I'll attribute that to Annabeth.

I slide in, my plate of waffles soggy and cold. I can't say I'm surprised.

"I thought you were dead or something," Gracie skates up to me, chewing her gum with a plate containing Annabeth's grilled cheese and tomato on her arm and a pen tucked behind her ear; she notices Annabeth—or Baby Girl, depending on who's addressing her. Cooper doesn't have a name yet; she changes it every time she sees him. Today he's Little Man.

Gracie's eyes slide between the three of us and settle back on the red crawling across my skin. _It's not what it looks like, I swear._ But then again… maybe it is.

"Sugar Daddy, you gotta warn a girl when you're gonna be late," she says with a pointed look as her hands push Annabeth's plate in front of her. Her attention redirects to Annabeth. "Here you go, Baby Girl. And what's Little Man having today?"

Cooper's eyes get big and narrow in on her. He clasps his hands and juts out his lower lip, just like I taught him to last week when we were alone at the jukebox picking a song. Annabeth immediately sends a glare my way and swivels back to Cooper, who falters for a second.

I jut my lip out in a pout and point to it; he rearranges his mouth and looks up at her. Gracie snorts.

I remember at one point during a lab in Chemistry when we had to dissect a sheep's eye ball that neither of us wanted to even look at the white slime or black pocket. She wrinkled her nose and pushed the tray my way; I gagged and turned my nose up at it. And no progress was made. Around us, kids jumped right in. Some volunteered their pliable partners, who were okay with doing the grunt work, and then filled out the worksheet.

The two of us were—_are_—mutually stubborn.

I thought then that maybe she'd cave first. She was obviously the less squeamish and more academically inclined. Her grade was at risk; she'd not be able to resist the scalpel and gloves. Science—yum. But the girl was insistent that she not even look at the gelatin substance coating the sphere.

I was desperate; it wasn't one of my finer moments.

I clapped my hands together and pulled my face into the most pathetic expression I could and, when I was satisfied, I nudged her arm with my elbow. She lasted about five seconds before giving in and sliding on the gloves, grumbling irritably and leveling nations with her hard gaze as she went. After the eye burst and gushed an inky substance onto our clothes and faces, I lamely offered to finish the dissection for her.

Annabeth turns to me. "Did you teach him that?"

But I don't need to answer before she decides that _yes, I did_ and bruises my shoulder with her fist. After dealing with me, and leaving me grasping my arm and gaping, she turns back to the kid and studies his absolutely adorable expression. He does it better than I ever did.

He gets waffles.

When she's squirting ketchup onto her plate near her fries, I offer my hand behind her back and he slaps it with small fingers.

I don't eat much of my food; it's not exactly appetizing sitting in a puddle of cold syrup for half an hour. But I hang back because I'm craving those stolen moments where I feel her heart beat speed up to match mine and her fingers comb the hair at the nape of my neck.

Annabeth always, always offers to pay and I always, always refuse her. At the end of the month, I foot our bill here and that's that.

When Cooper starts his slow shuffle to the door and Annabeth gathers her things, Gracie catches my eye from where she stands by Squirrel and thrusts her raised eyebrows in our direction expectantly. There'd always been an off-handed comment with a double-meaning that she'll drop as I'm standing to leave, all suggesting I get my act together. Of course, she couldn't possibly understand the complexities of our past. But as time drags on, it becomes harder and harder to see any other outcome.

As Annabeth opens her mouth to suggest she just pay for Cooper at _least_, I tell her to shut up and pull her to me. Her tense form molds to mine and the hard angles of her stressed body smooth. The tip of her nose brushes back and forth on my neck and is then replaced by her eyelashes, that flutter purposefully—so I know she's aware that I _really friggin' like that_—across my skin. Her fingers fiddle with the hair on the nape of my neck.

After a moment, she pulls away, her hips sliding across my inner thighs and she turns while pulling Cooper's soccer bag up onto her shoulder. Another look from Gracie is the driving force that has me catching her by the elbow before she can get too far from me. She turns back with her fingers frozen on the bag's strap.

"I, uh," I eye Cooper who's got one hand on the door and another holding up his coloring book, stalled there staring tenaciously at the page. I lower my voice. "Could we catch up… sometime? Like—just the two of us?" I tear my eyes from her son and focus on her face just to see if it's changed.

She clasps and releases her hands in front of her, fidgets, sets one hand on her hip while the other pushes back her rogue curls, then settles with both hands hugging the same hip. "Ah, um…" she too looks back at Cooper, now furiously scribbling in the lines. I wait a long moment as she watches him, knowing that she'll organize her thoughts before answering. She looks back at me, still uncertain. "I'd—it's tempting, really. I've _really_ missed you." I wait for the _thanks, but no thanks_. "It's just that… Cooper gets attached to people. Easily. And… and I want stability for him. I just—if things were to, to_ end_ like they did last time…"

"I understand," I get it. I really, really get it. But I can't accept it. "but—"

"I just couldn't do that to him."

"Annabeth." She bites her lip. I realize that she'll give in. With just the right encouragement, she'll come back. She just needs to hear something, _anything_ to let her know that it's worth it. We're worth it. "Our circumstances are just a bit different, don't you think?"

I can't tell if that was the right thing to say.

I put everything I've got in what I say next, all of the conviction I can muster. "I'm not letting you go. Not this time."

It's true. And it works.

This time I won't just watch her go.

* * *

Awkward first dates are awkward.

Luckily, there's no need to really impress Annabeth.

Rather than sweeping her off her feet for a night on the town, I opt on inviting her over to my apartment for some good old-fashioned Chinese takeout; it's casual and comfortable and completely perfect at not coming off as romantic. Just dinner between two friends.

I make sure the apartment isn't neglected in my preparations. Old beer bottles and chip bags are discarded, the carpeting is vacuumed, and Febreeze is heavily applied anywhere acceptable. No dirty clothes strewn across the bathroom and a candle is lit just because I can. She'll see right through it, but maybe she can appreciate the attempt.

When the delivery arrives, we settle down, her on the couch and me on the floor, the pair of us a real sight trying to maneuver our chopsticks around the white cartons. I've never been well-off with the Asian utensils; I could never quite figure out the proper pinching motion. There's an abundance of hopefuls grunts as we come _this close_ to success followed rapidly by our loud expletives.

After the small talk has faded and the silence is only stifled by the hum of the television playing an old black-and-white sitcom, I move us in a little deeper to things that need to be said. "So… what are you doing now?"

I don't know what I expected. Maybe a social security worker, a stuffy desk job, or even a teacher. Most probably a teacher.

But Annabeth picked up architecture somewhere along her way. She used to travel around the world, studying and improving her designs, finding the most efficient and ethical structures as models for the buildings and parks she helped to create. Lately, she's had to stay in New York and work on local projects. _Being a mom is a full time job_. She was recently recruited for helping to redesign Central Park, a rather extensive and rewarding case that will be announced by the end of next year. She said it always smelled like horse manure and needed to seriously be reconsidered in terms of efficiency and aesthetics.

"What about you?"

I don't know how she'll react. It's not mere coincidence that I ended up where I did, she'll see that. But I tell her anyway. That I help in running the local children's shelter where problem kids with troubled pasts find sanctuary. She just nods and takes it all in stride.

Her eyes flick up to mine and she greedily sucks up a cluster of noodles. "I think that's really great, actually. What you're doing for those kids? You're changing their lives."

I almost tell her that I'm not that great at being what they need—she knows it first-hand; she's seen my failure and thrown it back in my face with tears streaking her cheeks. But I just got her back and I couldn't stand to push her away now. Not now; not ever again. So, I push my luck in a different way.

"So, Cooper…"

Without hesitation, she blurts through a mouthful of shrimp and noodles, chopsticks hanging from the corner of her lips: "_He's not yours_."

It doesn't even cross my mind to be offended by how quick she spit that out. Her wide eyes and the sudden blush that comes to fruition are so astoundingly adorable; the thought that her son who happens to be _too young_ to be the child that, if mine, should be at least eight by now is too richly fantastic. I throw my head back and just laugh.

"God, Annabeth, _no._ I didn't even think—what is he? Four? Five?" She stutters out a chuckle and her eyes drop to her dinner; I've embarrassed her, but _wow_.

"He's turning six August 17," she murmurs and throws me a shy smile. The white shine of her teeth is accented heavily by the doting blush on her cheeks. I nearly laugh at the impossibly close proximity of my birthday and his. By the shift in Annabeth's eyes, I think she recognizes it too.

"So…" I try not to look away from her, but I feel like I'm intruding and I do my best intruding when I come off as harmless. I poke around my carton and gather up some noodles and alfalfa sprouts. "His father…"

"Is out of the picture." Her eyes dart down to her food and she immediately shovels too much into her mouth. It should keep her busy for a while.

"Well, _obviously_." I snort. She goes still and then quickly rights herself, concentrating too heavily on her chewing. She lowers the carton to her lap and her gaze follows. I realize a moment too late how horrible I am, how insensitive that was. I try to recover. "Not that there's anything wrong with you. O-or with Cooper. I just meant that I haven't met him and I _happened_ to notice you're not wearing—"

She waves my words away just as she swallows. "No, Percy, it's fine. I know what you meant." She gives a weak smile and when she looks at me, our eyes catch and it's impossible to even consider pulling away. There is something there that wasn't when we'd been friends, lovers, survivors, _whatever_. I don't think it's anything to do with me and everything to do with this new life she leads, so I don't feel too horrible acknowledging that it's contentment. Maybe even joy.

I clear my throat and she fingers the corner of the box in her hands. In a sudden burst of inspiration, Annabeth sets the carton on the coffee table and rips at it until it's falling apart. I watch dumbly, trying not to register that she's having a mental breakdown, she must be because why would she even—what is she—

When she sits back, satisfied, a stray curl billowing around her temple, she gestures with one hand and rubs her jeans. She's transformed the box into a plate, noodles curling around the middle. I look to her dumbfounded by both this revelation and her behavior. "That's," she breathes and gives me a sideways glance, "how you're supposed to eat Chinese food."

Fascinating. Really.

"So… is the ex a bad topic? Or are you just really passionate about Chinese etiquette?"

Her eyes pinwheel and she gestures for me to give her my box—one that I'm perfectly fine with leaving as is. I hand it to her and she works while she speaks, starting with a shrug. "You know him."

"I know him." I repeat, not sure how I'm supposed to take that. If I know him, then he broke the bro-code which is really not cool. Maybe she and I didn't flaunt whatever we were but it wasn't hidden. It was one of the worst kept secrets at one point.

She shrugs. "Well, maybe not _know_ _him_ know him. But yeah." She trails off and presses down the sides of my newly developed plate to prevent them from springing back into place. "When I stopped coming to group therapy, I started private one-on-one sessions. And we grew close."

"Wait." I could laugh at the horrible irony—and almost do. I manage to catch myself. "_Wes_? Are you…? You can't be serious."

The hard quality of her eyes withers after a moment of glaring and she pushes the plate of food my way. Her fingers weave. "I was stupid. It was stupid. _He's_ stupid. But I was… I was just so _mad_ at you and he always knew what to say—"

"So you _slept _with him?"

"No!" She glares at me so fiercely that I shrink back.

Percy, listen. You just need to stop talking because you have no skill with words and if you say one more horrible, off-handed comment, there will be internal war and you're so hopeless; why do you even bother?

"I mean, _yes_. But not right away. We had been dating for nearly a year and… there was always pressure for sex that I just wasn't ready for. But I—" Her face pinches and I understand in that moment that she's madder at herself than anything. Somehow, that's worse. "I became dependent, I guess. And I didn't want to lose him so… so, I don't know. It didn't seem to matter much anymore because the second time isn't as big a deal as the first—"

"If you didn't want to sleep with him, then you shouldn't have."

"I thought I loved him."

"What changed your mind?"

She undoes her ponytail and grasps her hair in her palms tightly before letting them fall around her shoulders to cradle her neck. "When I found out that I was pregnant, and he told me to get rid of it—when he threatened to leave—I realized that I didn't care. I mean, I stayed up the whole night trying to cry for him or maybe to convince myself that he was worth the cost, but I couldn't. And when he came crawling back saying that maybe I could _adopt_, I cut him off from my life. I mean, how could he even consider such a thing?"

The heartless suggestion makes my stomach clench uncomfortably. I had expected, maybe, for jealousy to rear its ugly head and taunt me with her child that she bore to someone else. I anticipated that and more when I initiated this conversation. But the burn of rage spontaneously erupts under my skin and curls my fists. That man sat through the cessations of her emotional control and patted her on the back. He listened to every story and it was nothing but the creaking of a pretty, vulnerable girl.

Then, the entirely selfish part of me catches wind of something mentioned in passing and I silently obsess over the possibility that, if she hadn't loved him and unwillingly had sex, yet had made love to me with alacrity, maybe it's possible that she might've sorta loved me back a little.

I try to swallow that hope.

"I—I can't say that I'm sorry he's gone."

"I know."

"Okay," I nod and reach for my chopsticks.

* * *

Once a week for an entire year, I've taken Annabeth anywhere she'd asked to go.

About 65% of the time, we've gotten frozen yogurt.

Today is no exception.

We eat while we walk, leisurely and content, and sometimes a bit of conversation is thrown from one mouth to the other. I make a passing remark about the irony of the scrawny boy working the counter at the sweet shop and she laughs, leaning into my side and licking up the length of her waffle cone where a heated drop slides. Her lips wipe clean on her sleeve and she shoots me a flustered smile that I easily best with my own goofy grin. She bumps me with her shoulder but doesn't move away this time. Our knuckles brush and despite my best intentions, my hand—completely of its own accord—hooks hers and twines our fingers. She smiles up at me and sucks on the top swirl of yogurt.

"Cooper's birthday is next week," I remind her as we pass an Imagination Station. Last year, I hadn't an idea what to get him—not to mention I wasn't a certain fixture and Annabeth didn't really encourage me in gaining his favor—so I told Gracie privately to serve them a generous slice of the diner's triple-chocolate cake. It was literally the least I could do, but nothing else seemed appropriate.

What surprised me was when Annabeth called to tell me that Cooper had made me a card when they got home because he had asked if I had a birthday and what it was. It was a very nice drawing of what I think was me and a plate of waffles. I'd never looked so good.

"So is yours."

"I'm too old to celebrate."

"We're the same age…"

"Not that you're old or anything."

"Shut up," she says as her hand squeezes mine and she slides her thumb across my skin evenly. She guides me inside my apartment and flicks on the lamp that rests on the side table; a thick light slides over the furniture and illuminates her profile wonderfully. I'm tempted to do something that I haven't in a long while, something I've been waiting patiently for.

I really, really want to kiss her.

She turns her eyes on me and, almost shyly, grabs my hands and pulls me to her. Her hands guide mine around her and she regards me warmly while her hands slide to link behind my neck. My thumbs slip under the hem of her shirt, my throat tightens in anticipation.

Not just to touch my lips to hers—though that is greatly welcomed with open arms and a prodigal celebration. But no, what I can't seem to push out of my mind is that if—no, not if but _when_, if the look in her eye means what it once did—she kisses me, this is the start. Possibly of something big. She'll be baring herself to me in so much more an intimate level than ever before. Because Annabeth's got scars, lots of scars, and they've hardened her heart to vulnerability and its appendages. If she—_when_ she kisses me, then she's letting me in. Inch by inch, but it's more than our stalemate. And I revere that.

"Percy," she whispers, her eyes trained on my mouth. I realize just how close we are. I hum in response, equally hushed under the weight of a tasteful desire. "I'd really like to kiss you now."

I laugh. "Okay."

Immediately, her mouth falls on mine, warm and soft and sweet. I want to say that everything is just as I remember, but I'm hard-pressed to be honest with myself. It's not the same; I doubt it could ever be the same again.

Annabeth's fingers dig _just so_ into the back of my neck and her body presses close to mine. I can't decide where I want my hands first. I shouldn't let them wander—_don't let them wander, Percy_—so to stop myself, I grip her waist nearly hard enough that she should cry out in pain. She doesn't; simply grins. Her heart beats, beats, beats through my ribs and presses to my own fluttering chest. I feel like my brain is going to melt through my skin. My name escapes me and then she brings it back with a murmur against my lips.

Everything about this kiss is better.

It makes sense; she was my first kiss so I wasn't really one that she could take pointers from. I don't doubt that I was her first as well. She wasn't bad—at the time, I could only think she was perfect—but only now I can taste how inexperienced those premature kisses really were. She is a spark that lights me on fire and then fuels it further.

She drives us forward—backward? Whatever. She pushes me back and we tumble onto the couch. A pause so that I can get situated and then she stretches out across me with kisses burning skin in her wake. I can't help but relish the familiar situation; I've missed this for too long. Her lips begin to wander across my skin, looping down my neck to the hollow of my throat. I feel her tongue dart from between her lips, and while it's new and unsettling, a thrill makes me quake.

Her fingers tease the buttons of my shirt and then she moves to straddle my hips so that the task of pushing my button-down aside is doable. That's fine, this is fine, this is _okay_. She pulls off her own shirt. _Fine, fine, fine_. That's happened before and it was mostly innocent. This is _okay_.

Her fingers trail to the button on my pants. _Red light._

I wrap my hands around her wrists suddenly, startling her. Her whole frame tenses as she looks up at me. Our chests are heaving and I try to catch my breath before I talk but there's no point. She'll get impatient and I don't have much willpower to speak of as we currently are.

I shake my head to start and she slumps back so that her weight is on the tops of my thighs. Fine, Annabeth, just _please_ don't move at all. "I can't—we can't—"

"Cooper's staying the night at a friend's house," she tries, not moving from her position.

I nearly laugh. While I've grown to love Cooper and all of his antics, the thought of her son doesn't make this compromising position any more appealing. That's helpful for my case. "It's not that," I shake my head and loosen my hold. She doesn't lunge again for the clasp of my jeans but her hands fall on the tops of my thighs, right under my waistline, and I can feel my skin burn through my clothes. "I don't, um… you know, abstinence and all."

"What?"

I find myself through the haze of lust and cling to it. "I'm a," I swallow and my eyes scan the white ceiling, "a Christian now and I just… I've decided to be abstinent until—you know."

I can't look at her expression, I won't, because maybe she won't understand it and sometimes even I don't. But Mrs. Kay has been adamant in bringing every child we get with her to church, and they're my responsibility as well. I'd braved sermons before easily but somewhere along the line, I'd started to listen. I'd pop in during Youth Group, where the kids that liked church were prone to go, and the leader would sometimes lead a session on apologetics. And I felt lighter, the air wasn't so thick anymore; maybe my mom and Ms. Pallas had been right and I had been holding out stubbornly for nothing.

Annabeth startles and reaches for her shirt to pull it over her head. _Come on, I didn't say I'm a monk._ She moves from my lap and stands beside the couch, looking away from me and wrapping her arms around herself. I've screwed everything up. I'll just have to accept it, grin and bear it; if she isn't okay with who I am and can't respect my beliefs, that's fine… But it still _hurts_. Being religious doesn't make me any less human.

"God—um, _gosh_. Percy," she mutters and shakes her head. She gives me a sideways glance. "Why didn't you _tell me_?"

I expect her to leave. She doesn't.

Her cheeks burn bright red as she speaks. "I don't want to—to _tempt_ you, or anything. I didn't know. I wouldn't have—I'm _so sorry_." She buries her face in her hands. I can just hear her whisper "I'm so embarrassed" when I realize that she's not mad. She feels _guilty_. I could cry from the overwhelming relief but instead choose to throw my head back and laugh. She shoots me a hard stare and it looks like she's going to yell at me for laughing but I sit up and pull her down beside me.

"Why are you embarrassed?"

"Because!" She sputters, flustered. "I just—_threw myself_ at you and you…" She shakes her head again and stares at her lap. But I can finish that thought. I rejected her and if Annabeth has anything as her own, it's her pride. The pride I've seriously wounded.

"Annabeth," I start, feeling just a tad mischievous. I grab her hands and laugh as her face scrunches indignantly. "Please don't think that I don't want you. I'm still a twenty-five year-old guy. It's hard not to want you. But I want to wait."

I didn't come to that conclusion just because _the Bible tells me so_. It's a helpful reminder but I'm living my life based off of experience. She burned me after I gave her every piece of me with no guarantee that she'd hang around. I won't—I _can't_ make the same mistake twice.

"Please don't let this ruin the rest of the night," I nudge her with my shoulder and try to forget my very obvious arousal. _Dead puppies, Smelly Gabe, Paul and mom flirting_. "You can still stay the night if you want. We can watch that movie you like, the really sad Holocaust one with the boy and his pajamas."

She gives a weak smile and then a shaky laugh. "Yeah or we can watch that Nicholas Sparks movie you like so much."

"It gets me every time." I grin and this time when I prompt her, she nudges me back.

"Fine." She rises and holds out her hand to me while I reach for my shirt. She bats it away and gives me a wicked smile. "There's nothing wrong with your shirt staying exactly where it is."

I laugh and she ventures to the far wall in my bedroom to rummage through my movie collection. Her cinematic preference ultimately wins over mine and as she pushes the disc into the player, I mourn my masculinity. I usually leave the room at the worst parts because this movie breaks me in ways that I'll never be comfortable with. Annabeth is partially fascinated and majorly disgusted by it, but I know her; _history_ and _knowledge_ and blah, blah, blah.

* * *

Annabeth has nightmares.

Habitually.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I wake to the DVD menu for 'UP' blinking at me and the cheerful music chatters through the speakers. It's so unsettling in the relative stillness, that one sound seeming too loud and yet not substantially noisy enough to cancel out the blaring silence. I'm contemplating crawling out from under the long, tan body that's covering mine to shut it off when I feel it.

The cause of my interrupted dream isn't the chipper, nostalgic melody from the television, but it is the quiet whimpers just underneath. Annabeth's fingernails are imbedded painfully in my chest and I can feel my skin tearing under the assaults. I blink my weariness back and instinctively grab her wrists to rid myself of the pain.

She makes a sound not unlike the earlier whimpers that chills my blood and her whole frame tenses.

I press my lips into her hair and wince when she holds me tighter. "Annabeth," I murmur.

At this point, I'm wishing she had let me put my shirt back on. I scrub my face. I don't know what more I can do; every shift and twitch in the muscles littering my bones causes her to dig in just that much deeper. A wetness streaks my chest and I don't know if it's blood or tears. I don't want to know. It wouldn't make much difference.

Determined, I move fluidly into a sitting position and take her with me. She cries out and presses closer to me. She's twisted, sitting on one of my thighs with her legs curled, one between my two, and her other foot tucked under the outer side of my knee. I run my fingers up and down her back and keep repeating her name in her ear. I tap her hip lightly to stir her.

Her whimpers are persistent but her fingers ease up; I hadn't realized how painful it was until she let go and the sting briefly consumed me. I flinch. Her eyelashes flutter across my pecs a few times and go perfectly still.

"Annabeth?"

A moment. And then she peels her wet cheek from me and wipes the evident tears away with the back of her hand. She moves to sit between my legs rather than on my lap when I tell her that I can't feel my foot.

She won't look at me. "Did I wake you?"

I don't bother to answer; she knows that she did. "Doesn't matter. Do you want to talk?"

I hold my breath. I want to talk; I want her to trust me again in that way. It was a way that gave me purpose, made me feel needed, and I liked being there for her. I'd never been so protective of someone outside of my family and Grover before. I'd been the one to stand up to bullies, sure (but usually I was the kid being bullied). When I talked back in favor of other kids, it was my sense of justice. What I felt for Annabeth left me blind with rage or burning with desire and I'd never felt so much at once. It wasn't about doing the right thing; it was always about her.

She shakes her head. "I'm okay."

I don't allow myself to physically deflate.

She turns to me and her gaze flits from my chest to my eyes. Her voice comes out unbearably calm and quiet; comatose. He sucks the life from her even after being gone for so long. "I hurt you."

"Only a bit," I shrug it off. Make her smile, Percy. If you want to do one thing right ever in your life, it'll be making her smile. "Kiss it better?" I give her a winning smile.

The corner of her mouth lifts in a weary smirk but she doesn't deny my little game. She leans over and places ten kisses, one on each crescent-shaped, purpling indent across my skin. Her forehead stays pressed to my collarbone. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," I tell the top of her head.

"I'm such a mess."

"I'm okay with that."

* * *

Annabeth never talks to me when she wakes up from a nightmare. Not immediately. But every morning, when the dark isn't there to suffocate us under the added weight of memories, when the sun coats us in dusty light, she smiles up at me lightly and plays with my fingers and I just listen.

And after it all, when I've got nothing to say, I kiss her senseless.

* * *

"Percy," she says from somewhere behind the two of us, scribbling in Cooper's coloring books. I look up from my measured strokes at Batman's cape. Her arms are folded under her breasts in a tee that she stole from me nearly two years ago. Cooper ignores his mother because now he's eight and he's too cool to deal with anything that doesn't wear spandex and tool belts. Or anything not named Percy.

I suck my tongue back in my mouth when she quirks an eyebrow, bemused.

She jerks her thumb over her shoulder and motions to the kitchen. I set down my crayon and paper on the coffee table and ruffle Coop's hair only for him to give me an annoyed grunt and shove my leg away. I don't know if I should laugh or scold him.

I follow her inside and she peeks around my shoulder to ensure that the kid's thoroughly occupied.

"What's up, smarty?" She gives me an irritated look. She hates pet names but I just can't help myself from acknowledging her genius. I scrunch up my face and stick my tongue out at her.

"Child," she scoffs but the smile she gives is fond and slightly endearing, so I don't mind. In an instant she slips into her shy state that comes with a tentative touch or embarrassing questions. I fire up my teasing attitude and wait impatiently for something new to use against her. She leans her hands on the kitchen counter and rocks on her feet, then sighs heavily and looks at me from the corner of her eye. "Do you ever want to have kids of your own?"

"Are you offering?" I wiggle my eyebrows.

"Seriously," she huffs and levels me with her gaze. I've yet to become inclined to resign myself to maturity, but I try for her. Especially when she gets that murderous glint. Sometimes, it's an honest desire to lash out; she'll revert to the poisonous attitude that used to surround her and on more than one occasion she's looked at Cooper viciously and I'll have to lull her back to herself. She gets wrapped up in the seed of hate that was planted a long time ago and I always have to take a few calming breaths myself to refrain from taking out my own anger with the world.

I shrug. "I guess. Maybe. When I'm married."

She hesitates just a fraction of a second. "Would you ever have kids with me?"

And it takes me just long enough to realize what she's said for her to begin to retract her question. I shush her quickly and look over my shoulder at Cooper. "Annabeth… are you asking me to marry you?"

"Yes."

I think about making her beg. I know not to. Instead, I glower in her general direction and cross my arms indignantly. I'm not _ready_ yet. She misinterprets.

"It's a yes or no question. Just answer me." When I find her eyes, she's scowling and it's so ridiculous that I drop my hands and attempt to brush off my irascibility. It doesn't work at quite the caliber that I anticipated.

Well, now's as good a time as any.

"You just have to screw everything up, don't you?" I snap. Her reaction is to step away from me and throw her arms to her sides, beyond pissed. Her mouth hangs open and her eyebrows scrunch down over her thundering irises. A red heat spreads from her neck to her hairline.

"_Excuse me?_"

"I was going ring shopping Sunday after church!" Her demeanor softens. "You're too impatient for your own good."

"Oh." Her fingers twist together awkwardly and the tension flees the room hurriedly the moment she sheepishly smiles. She takes two quick strides before throwing her arms around my neck. Her lips dance around my neck before nipping a line to my ear. "I've got every right to be impatient," she whispers breathily and kisses my ear lobe. I press my open palm to the small of her back. "I've been waiting for you since we were sixteen."

"I don't count the first year we met; you didn't make it easy on me."

"I will never, _ever_ make it easy for you," she laughs before catching my lips in an open-mouthed kiss.

* * *

My finger slides along the dip in her bare back, from her shoulder blades to those two dimples at the base of her spine. I loop and drag my nail lightly in an eight around those two sweet spots. She buries her face in the crook of her elbow and jolts when my finger dips just a little lower under the sheet that's draped across her hips. A smattering of pebbles lace her skin and she quivers.

Beautiful.

I lean over to press a kiss between her shoulder blades and linger, just wishing for this moment to become our forever.

A soft, breathy laugh emits from her.

"I didn't know you were awake," I manage as I kiss her skin up her neck and to the cheek she's left exposed. Her cheeks tighten when she smiles.

"Well, I wasn't," she murmurs under the skin of her arm. Annabeth hates morning breath; I find her insecurity highly amusing though I couldn't agree more. However, her feelings towards it are so strong that she keeps a glass of water on her side table and a case of mints in her drawer. And who better to participate in this odd ritual than her husband?

It's weird but it works because then I don't have to go all the way to the bathroom sink if I get the urge to kiss her.

She doesn't even hesitate to lift her head and reach out for the half-full glass, take a sip and fumble around in her drawer. I just grin to myself and continue peppering her skin with kisses wherever I can reach; I drag my fingers down her side and grip the curve of her hip. Her head drops and she sighs. She keeps groping around in the drawer.

I don't have the heart to tell her that since I took a mint, I left the container out by the water. Let her suffer.

I glide my hand down to the back of her thigh, right under her curves and snort when she squeezes her legs together.

"It's not funny, Percy," she growls and throws her head back. The mints catch her attention and she mutters under her breath about just what she thinks of me in that moment, all a confused heap of desire and irritation and a dash of love. I ignore her crossness and narrow my attention on the delicate skin over the pulse point in her neck. A growl crawls across my throat when she finally gets that mint in her mouth; she turns under me and grabs my face to connect our mouths.

"I thought it was," I snicker when she pulls away to give me a sweet kiss right between my eyebrows.

"Jerk."

She pulls me to settle between her legs, making all of her accessible. All of her skin glows with a warmth that rivets me and curls long fingers around my bones. Her fingers brush the hair from my eyes, slow and sweet and gentle. Her eyes flash favorably with a rich darkness that stirs everything in me and tightens all portions of my being. Her palms move to walk across my chest and her gaze follows leisurely.

The second time we ever made love, I felt like an idiot, so inexperienced and tentative, while her certainty made my heart stutter. She never gave me an opportunity to succumb to my embarrassment, though; she never let my mind function long enough for it to matter. Her movements were so fluid and attentive to every inch of me, and it seemed that was enough for her, like she couldn't imagine asking for more.

I could, though.

And she was pleasantly surprised.

Annabeth stops her careful ministrations, hands frozenly tangled in the hair that's fanned around my temples, and stares for a long while. It's comfortable, looking at her for as long as I'd like. Her gold curls fall across the pillows just to the left of her head and exude the scent of my shampoo that she totally stole last night without asking. Her excuse had been that she had leftovers from washing me and it very clearly wouldn't make sense to waste the suds. I only mind so much because I love the scent of her fresh, _feminine_ shampoo; it's lulled me to sleep so often when I'd bury my face in her curls. Her lips are parted and that sweet mint circles me and draws me in. Her eyes flit between mine and then a corner of mouth lifts tiredly.

"I love you," she tells me as her fingers slide to the back of my head. "I don't tell you enough."

I hadn't noticed. It seems to me that she says it at least three times a day, without fail, and always out of the blue and with an urgency that wipes away any doubt about its sincerity. She never says it after I do; we've talked about that before. She feels it's not enough to say it just because I've told her so.

"Like fishing for compliments," she explained. "It loses value if it's said out of obligation rather than the fact that it simply can't be contained anymore."

I hadn't understood right away. To me, if she told me she loved me, even only after my prompting, I would've believed her. It never would've even crossed my mind that it could be forced from her. But then, what she said next left my heart soaring and my mind reeling and my skin tingling and at that moment I could've burst.

"When I tell you that I love you, it's not for you. It's because it's so overwhelming that I just can't help myself."

Her declarations of love mean more to me than any kind word or gentle touch; when she says those substantial words I swear I could grow wings and fly so far beyond cloud nine. In the middle of preparing dinner and she looks up from her blueprints to remind me; while I'm running around the backyard with Cooper and she suddenly throws open the door and tells me so; when I'm pulled from sleep at three in the morning right after one of her nightmares and she wraps me up in words and limbs. I could live and breathe and thrive off of those words alone.

I lean in to kiss her fully, lighting every nerve-ending in my body ablaze.

"Now, about those kids," I murmur and she swallows my words with a laugh. "I think that after waiting the standard six months, we should maybe consider that possibility."

She grips my biceps and pulls away to look up at me through her long, dark lashes. I feel the phantom memory of those lashes kissing my skin in so many places.

"So, you _do_ want children?"

I nearly laugh. "Isn't that what we got married for?" I tease and latch my mouth onto her neck, letting out a playful growl that always, always, always causes her to snort and press her shoulder to her ear, angling her mouth just right for me to kiss her.

"Good," she asserts and pushes back on my chest to catch my gaze. "Because I'm already pregnant."

"_What?_"

I can't even begin to contain my grin because this is life blooming right in front of me and maybe it started out pretty terribly but it's working its way into something wonderful. There's me and her and tomorrow and the next day and the next and I can be there for her, I can protect her, I can provide for her.

And apparently impregnate her.

And oh _sweet baby Jesus_, I'm going to be a father.

My zealous laughter banishes her hesitation and I take her with such fervor and desire and love that I can't stop. I don't plan on stopping. Not ever.

I'm going to love this girl, this family we've built for the rest of my life, all else be damned.

**FIN.**

**LIKE, FOR REAL.**

**If you want something else addressed, give me a one-word prompt, explain what point you want me to focus on, and I'll see what I can do. But most probably, it will be posted under Daughter's Lament. (Including my favorite topic—**_**babies!**_** Yum.)**

**And now, something I've never done before, but whatever: shout outs to all who have reviewed and followed!**

_**SearScare**_**- The first to review and the one who absentmindedly guided this story. You might not have realized it at the time, or maybe you did, but I edited mostly based off of your reviews. And I wrote to learn more about myself and my writing and just writing in general through your reviews. **

_**Harryfan94**_**- Loads and loads of support. Thank you for that.**

_**xLittle Black Star**_**- A faithful follower. You've always encouraged me and tagged along for every story (no matter how much you naturally hate the characters *cough* **_**Annabeth**_** *cough*) and for that, I'll always be grateful.**

_**Heart-of-caramel**_**- You readily shared your enthusiasm for this and those reviews leave me giddy and breathless and looking forward to writing the next and the next and the next.**

_**Traversing**_**- You'd get emotional and you made sure I knew it, and that's all I could've hoped for. I just want to attack people with feels all—the—time!**

_**Tajee165**_**- You've got a penname that I haven't figured out yet. But… I think I like it. Thanks for your continued support!**

_**Silent Movements**_**- You're always ready to pinpoint things about myself that I never even noticed. Did you know that? You tell me something and I'm just like "Did I do that?" (Did anyone read that in an Urkel voice? I did…)**

_**Deceptive-serenade**_**- You always know just what to say and how to say it to keep me moving. Thank you for your constant, positive presence.**

_**WisestOwl**_**- You just popped up in the middle of this story, didn't you? Haha, but you're always there so thank you for that.**

_**Guest**_**- Um, yes, well… hello. Welcome to my humble corner of the internet. Here we wear onesies and eat fajitas while 'Fresh Prince' plays… I'm kidding; I just really like that you'd pop in and follow this story (and that must take serious **_**effort**_** if you don't have an account. Seriously.)**

_**Klassykali**_**- Hey! :) I was majorly invigorated when you just showed up, rooting for Percy and me and this story. I'm so glad you think things played out perfectly.**

_**The Goddess of Myths**_**- You read my author's notes. And then commented on them. People don't normally do that, but it kept me from feeling like I talk to myself (which I do but it seems important to me that I not do that publically on the interweb, so thank you for talking back).**

_**TearsofDiamonds**_**- Have I ever told you that your username provides a wonderful, surreal, deceptively delicious mental image? It does. And then you're picture amplifies that vivid imagining. Anyway, thanks for your support!**

_**Aesir-aegis**_**- YOU WROTE TO ME IN ALL CAPS AND THAT IS A BEAUTIFUL THING AND OMG THE FEELS I KNOW I JUST** **wanted to thank you for unleashing the emotions you felt while reading. :)**

_**ImmaNerd98**_**- I made you cry. And I never know how to respond to that. Like, is it a good thing? Or should I feel ashamed…? In any case, you felt it and that's all I could ever ask for. Thank you.**

_**Livingondaydreams**_**- Hey! Long time, no… well, I've never seen you before so never mind. But thanks for constantly supporting me and encouraging me in my literary endeavors. You're a beautiful person.**

_**MexicanPr0digy**_**- I'm diggin' the username. Legit. But yeah, here's that part II you asked for.**

_**Thewriterinthemist**_**- Thank you for bewitching us with your sudden and powerful appearance and thank you for your kind words and support!**

_**St. Walker**_**- I'm not going to lie; your review(s) touched me the most. It/they made me feel… well, I didn't get the warm tinglies like other reviews. But I will tell you that you might have given me something better. I felt, as I read your review **

**1) understood. Because, yes, my main goal is to write about emotions.**

**2) Those writers, in my opinion, are the greatest and they're my inspiration and thank you for giving me a sense of accomplishment. **

**3) I've only ever wanted what I write to feel like it's not fabricated. Fiction is nice, wonderful, lovely, but reality just seems to hit home, doesn't it? **

**4) **_**It presses against your chest and makes you wonder if you ever had a heart before this moment. And you know for a fact that no, no, you never had anything before this story. That's how everyone should feel when fantastic touches their lives, just for a short eleven chaptered, or so, story.**_** And I couldn't have said it better myself.**

**5) You made me feel like a nightingale or strawberry—and that's a truly nice feeling. **

**6) I'm not (unfortunately) Australian. Just American. And I'm an American who greatly looks forward to your novel. Tell me when it's released? **

**7) My one regret is dredging up old, painful memories. And I'm sorry for that.**

**8) Please don't do that. You've got a poetic heart from what I can tell and the world needs that. I need that—to know that people like you exist.**

**9) I hope the heavy has passed and you've come back stronger. And though the pain never really goes away, you're made better for it.**

**10) So, for you, it is finished.**

**Thanks to everyone for following, reading (obviously), and reviewing. It means the world to me to know that I can touch people in different ways through words that read the same but translate through individuality.**

**God bless.**


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